Red Blood, White Snow
by LabyrinthDweller
Summary: Frozen rivers don't flow.
1. Servant Boy

_This is just going to be a short multi-chapter thing, say, 5-10 chapters focusing on Dmitri during and after the revolution. I'm warning you ahead of time, I'm a history nerd ESPECIALLY when it comes to Russia so um yes. Expect a lot of that._

_A note: Petrograd is St. Petersburg. I wrote it in that different tongue because it works later in the story, you'll see._

_Also, one last thing: Kudos to those who recognize the song lyrics I've used as a title and summary for the story. (Without Google, of course)_

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**Red Blood, White Snow**

**Chapter 1**

Dmitri ran out into the golden hall, taking a generous bite of an apple he snatched out of the fruit bowl before it was taken out to the tables. The cook was preoccupied with some burned fish in the kitchen and the rascally servant boy took the opportunity to escape his duties to catch a glimpse of the Royal Family at the 300th anniversary of the Romanov bloodline. There were so many guests there that Dmitri guessed that half of Petrograd was there in the golden hall, all dancing together in perfect time with their partners and the pairs to their lefts and their rights. His eyes momentarily widened as he stared at the rich grandeur until he heard a small girl's giggle above the din of the music, footsteps, and conversing crowd. Wiping the juice of the apple off on the sleeve of the potato sack he wore, his dark eyes redirected themselves to find the source of the laughter.

Climbing up the carpeted stairs as fast as she could with her long blue traditional robes, the youngest daughter of the Czar made a beeline for the royal chairs. In her hand was a piece of paper decorated with black and red ink. Dmitri couldn't quite see what it was, but it looked like some sort of anthropomorphic pig riding a...something. Waiting for her in one of the smaller chairs was her grandmother, the Dowager mother of Czar Nicholas II.

Dmitri watched on from the sidelines, taking another bite from his apple. The youngest daughter, Anastasia, was an object on interest to him. Not only was she closest to his age (he was two years her senior) she had a fiery spirit that had, at one point, thrown his master straight into the river. Why? Presumably just because she wanted to. Either way he had some sort of a child-like crush on her, forbidden or not. Looking never harmed anyone, though. So Dmitri looked.

The little Duchess handed her drawing to her grandmother. Like a grandmother should (or so Dmitri always dreamed) she laughed with great mirth and pressed the drawing to her chest, showing a token of gratitude. In return, she reached into her handbag and pulled out an elaborately decorated gold and emerald box, round in shape and Baroque in nature. The girl gasped in delight as the grandmother held it in her delicate, wrinkled hands.

"For me?" The girl asked in wonder, "Is it a jewelry box?"

Dmitri leaned in to hear the conversation between them, he could even see the grandmother's lips open to respond. He crept just one step further.

"_Dmitri!_" A harsh voice called, causing every muscle in Dmitri's body to freeze as thoroughly as a Siberian winter, "You belong in the _kitchen!_"

Arms that were stronger that they should've been grabbed the weak kitchen boy from behind, lifting him into the air. He dropped his apple from the force that the cook grabbed him with, and while he was swung around he gazed longingly at the red fruit now lying as trash on the carpet. The lean forearms cut into his soft sides, squeezing his ribcage and making him struggle for breath. He cried in protest as the cook carried him back from the golden halls and the joyful waltz music to the panic and filthiness of the kitchen. There, in the spice pantry, the cook threw him upon the ground. Dmitri, disgruntled, gave a short yelp as his forehead skidded on the dusty floor. Even through the pantry walls they could still hear the festive waltz music, though it drowned out all the conversations between the nobles. Almost instantaneously the cook, his master, scolded him with his foul, raspy voice. Dmitri cowered against the floor, bowed over as if asking desperately for forgiveness. He peeked upwards to check to see if his master was unbuckling his belt to use as a whip. To his relief, the cook merely shouted at him this time. Though Dmitri knew that it was only because there was a grand party in the palace, he still felt a little more at ease, especially when the cook told him to gather certain spices for a poultry platter and left him in the pantry, slamming the door shut.

Standing up, Dmitri brushed the dust off of his filthy servant's clothes and wiped the dirt that had seeped into his forehead. Sticking his tongue out childishly at the door, he turned to the shelves stocked full of spices. Selecting quite a few, he began to sweep them into his thin arms, muttering incomprehensible unhappy thoughts under his breath. As he piled the glass jars on top of one another he found his feet clumsily sliding across the floor in a mock waltz, as close to the _one-two-three_ of the music as he could get. Really, he wasn't good at it. It didn't matter though; in his mind he was a noble, no, a royal even as his socked feet swept the dust up in clouds from the floor.

Abruptly, without rhyme, reason, or warning, the joyous waltz music stopped, and so did Dmitri's feet.

His head turned to the pantry door, mouth open in confusion. Now he could hear the voices of the various maids and servants murmuring to each other worriedly. Even some of the noble voices he could hear—and he could tell the difference just from the way they spoke.

What had happened?

Aromatic smells from Hungarian paprika to far eastern mustard seed plumed into the pantry as Dmitri's curiosity got the better of him and he dropped the glass jars on the floor in his rush out the door. Using his small size to his advantage, he wove in and out between the still servants, keeping close to the wall to avoid attention. Snaking this way and that, he soon heard the voice of the Czar shouting into the silent hall, soon having a response from a man whose voice was even raspier than the cook's. Sliding close to the wall, Dmitri found himself in the golden hall again, appearing just behind the Dowager's chair, where the Romanov daughter Anastasia was still by her side.

"...by the unholy powers vested in me, I banish _you_ with a _curse!_"

A collective gasp raised from the noble crowd in the golden hall. Or, it was the golden hall, but somehow each of the candles and electric lights had all faded out, leaving the hall in a bluish purple shadow. The Czar looked back to where his family was, his eyes resting on each of them as this raggedy man with a long spidery beard spoke maniacally, waving a green reliquary this way and that. Dmitri froze again as he swore the blue eyes of the Czar hit his brown ones. He expected a flash of anger from the ruler of Russia, but there was nothing but a faint fear in them, as if the Czar either didn't see him, or he regarded him as unworthy of his anger.

"You and your family will _die _within a fortnight! I _will not rest_ until all the Romanov lives are _destroyed!_" the ragged man cried. From what Dmitri could see in the dark, he was dressed vaguely as a monk, a holy man, yet his every action seemed the opposite of holy. Some cries of despair raised from the nobles as the ragged man raised the green reliquary, which had begun to viciously glow. Before Dmitri's very eyes, a beam of sickly viridian shot from the reliquary to the great lamp hung from the ceiling. Screams and shouts rose as a chorus as the lamp fell crashing to the ground, shattering and creating a horrendous noise before lying limp on the ruined ballroom tile. Dmitri flinched back as the electricity in the lamp sparked in its final throes of life. When he lowered his arms from his face, the ragged man dressed as a monk was gone.

And that was it.

He stood there paralyzed along with the collective crowd. The Czar was the first to move, turning and climbing the red carpeted stairs up to his family. He whispered things lowly to his wife, and looked around, his eyes just on the edge of frantic. After a few minutes, people had begun to rid themselves of their petrification, and slowly began to shuffle this way and that, most of them in the direction of the exit.

"Fetch some water, boy,"

Dmitri blinked, and looked around in a confused daze.

"You, kitchen boy, fetch some water," The voice said again. Dmitri looked again, then nearly had his heart choke him when he found himself looking the Czar directly in the eye. Giving a soft croak, he nodded vehemently though there was no anger in the Czar's face. Knees shaking, Dmitri stumbled as he turned to run into the kitchen before waiting for his legs to work properly. Dodging the cook, he clambered onto the counter top and reached up to a cabinet, his sweaty hand floundering around until it clasped a gold rimmed ceramic cup. Nearly tumbling back down to the floor, he didn't hear the cook's demanding questions as he reached up on his tip-toes to reach the state-of-the-art running water faucet that was newly set in the palace. Filling it until it was spilling over the rim of the glass, Dmitri hugged the water to his chest as he hurried back out to the ruined golden hall. It was already half empty by the time he handed the water to the Czar, arms thrust out and face scrunched closed.

The Czar's big hands dwarfed Dmitri's as he took the cup from the kitchen boy's shaking fingers, giving the water to his daughters to share. Dmitri stepped back and looked out to the fallen lamp. A lump gathered in his knotted stomach as he realized that the mess would have to be cleaned up, and there was one answer as to who had to do the worst jobs in such tidying.

Dmitri failed to stifle a groan, which soon became a cry as the cook once again grabbed him in his arms, his belt already unbuckled and in hand for punishment. He struggled against his temperamental master in vain as he was taken to the meager servant's quarters to be whipped back into proper shape.

–

Nothing really happened after that. Dmitri was hungry and hurt after the punishment that he had to suffer from the failure of a 300th anniversary (forfeited one day's worth of food and a good whipping with the belt buckle) but the ragged man's vow didn't seem to do any harm. The palace seemed the same as always, if a little spooked. He didn't learn much from the gossip of the maids though, as all of it seemed too wild to be true. Even when he was helping to clean up the mess in the golden hall he didn't learn much other than what he believed to be the man in the ragged cloak's name. Rasputin, they called him, Grigori Rasputin. Once a holy man to the royals, apparently. Dmitri wrinkled his nose as he untangled copper wiring from the belly of the lamp, earning several cuts on his hand in the process. He didn't know how the royals ever once thought that Rasputin was a holy man—to him he _definitely_ seemed way off the path of a holy monk. But, he supposed, the royals may not have been perfect.

A shard of stray glass sliced his palm open and he winced out loud, pulling his hand out quickly to examine the damage. Hmph. That's what he got for thinking of anything less than perfect of the royals, he supposed. Stupid kitchen boy. He squeezed his hand as blood began to seep out and stain his pale skin. Turning around in a circle, he craned his neck to look for his master, the head cook. When he found him he presented his bloodied hand, hoping for a scrap of cloth to cover the wound. The head cook merely waved him off with a dismissive sniff. Dmitri hid his frown by dropping his gaze so that his untamed bangs hid his face. Under normal circumstances Dmitri would have definitely received a makeshift bandage. The head cook had a heart, no matter how buried deep in Russian snow it was. He just supposed that with all the commotion and his constant trouble-making that his master just decided that it was an extension of his punishment. Dmitri sighed and returned to work, picking up the little loose pieces of the lamp.

It was mid-afternoon when the lamp was finally cleared out of the golden hall. The skid and burn marks left behind were mopped away by the maids, and Dmitri was allowed to rest in the servant's quarters for the rest of the day. On his pillow he found a good sized cloth, clean even, ripped into strips for bandages. Managing to give a small smile despite the sweat, dirt, and small cuts on his face. Wrapping his scabbing palm in the bandages, he flopped down on his paper-thin mattress and tried to dream of better things.

He wished the cook was a better father. Not that the cook was his father, no. The cook was simply the only family Dmitri had. No one knew where his real father was, and his mother died during childbirth. The more educated maids, the ones who were allowed to be seen by the royals, called him Macduff behind his back. Though Dmitri didn't understand what they were talking about, he guessed it had something to do with being torn out of his mother's stomach as an infant instead of going through the normal birth process like everyone else, whatever that was. Either way, that simple fact of how he came into life had him in a fit of silent ridicule amongst the servants, young or old.

Dmitri shifted on the cold mattress and gazed off into the mahogany walls. He wondered what his mother looked like, and whether or not she loved him or not. Probably not, since it was his birth that killed her. No, no, no, that's not right. Mothers _always_ loved their children and that's what he wanted to think about. He closed his eyes.

Dark hair. Big brown eyes with small pupils, to see the color more. Pale skin, but not as pale as his. Wrapped in a warm coat that was blue on the outside and lined with black fur on the inside. A warm smile with small lips. Soft, rounded nose. Open arms. Yes. Sitting in front of a hot meal near an inviting fire wrapped in her coat with her arms around him.

Oh, and a voice like silk that willed him to sleep after the hearty meal he just ate.

Smiling, Dmitri passed into slumber.

–

The pounding of many panicked feet shook Dmitri out of slumber. He had learned by now to sleep through lots of things as it was hard enough to get sleep on a thread-bare mattress as it is, but for some reason the urgency of the air pulled him out of bed to stare in stupefaction at all the servants bustling to and fro.

"Riots in the streets!"

"What's happening?"

"Will they come here?"

"What do they want?"

"Has this Great War traveled to Petrograd?"

"Is the palace going to be stormed?"

"What are we to do?"

Dmitri felt his breath quicken with the fear in the air, like smoke from a fire settling in his lungs. Immediately he joined the panicked bulk of servants by running to and fro, what for, he did not know. His feet took him to the kitchen, where the orange of the setting sun blazed into the windows. Screams from somewhere within the palace shook him, and in the distance he heard the clanging of an iron gate being forced open. Climbing quickly onto a counter, he pressed his face against the cold glass window and peered through the snow to see a mob of people armed to the teeth storming the courtyard. Dmitri's breath caught in his throat, seeing the rage and hatred on the faces of the commoners in the mob even though they seemed so far away.

"Dmitri,"

The kitchen boy was startled out of his skin and he turned his head around, raising an arm instinctively to protect himself. There, in the middle of the kitchen stood his master, the head cook, washed in an orange glow.

"You belong in the kitchen."

Fear struck Dmitri's face as he stared into his makeshift father's eyes, seeing the weariness in them. He pressed himself against the window, uncomfortable. Something wasn't right.

The two stared at each other for the longest time. After a while Dmitri began to tremble from the confusion and pain of simply _waiting_ for something, _anything_ to happen.

"M-Master?" He finally stuttered quietly. The head cook raised his hand, and in one incredibly long second Dmitri saw everything happen before him as the glint of the small pistol shone in the sunset. Dmitri choked twice, sputtered once, then cried out in protest as the head cook raised the pistol up to his bald forehead.

"W-Wait! No, please—!"

Dmitri closed his eyes and heard the gunshot, followed shortly after by the body of the cook, his former father, hitting the tiled floor with an inhuman thump. Warily opening one eye though it pained him to do so, he looked down past his bony knees to see a pool of blood coloring his bald head, decorated with white flakes. Gulping down horrid feelings, Dmitri shut his eyes against tears and willed himself never to look or think about the dead body again, or what the white flakes were, or how his bald head had a gruesome sheen in the light of the dying sun.

Rubbing his hurtfully dry eyes, he sank down from the counter and onto the floor. Not allowing himself to see anything, he felt his way around by memory, letting his feet take him back to the servant's quarters. Nobody was there anymore. No more feet were running around, they had either escaped or were in hiding elsewhere. Presumably escaped, with the peril that awaited them otherwise. Did he care? Not particularly. Not after what he had seen. He didn't feel anything, actually. It was strange. He supposed that he was supposed to feel more when his only father figure committed suicide in front of him, but he didn't. He just felt...empty.

Dmitri didn't know where to go. He wandered the sudden skeleton of a palace like a lost puppy. Through his wandering in the servant's quarters, he eventually wound up next to a great long hall full of windows. It was here that he heard the Czar's voice echo back to the thin walls.

"_Hurry, children!_"

Dmitri paused and put his ear to the wall. The hollowness from witnessing the head cook's suicide suddenly washed away as a sharp feeling of determination entered his veins as he concentrated hard on listening. Many footsteps, big and small, scurried across the windowed hall. Furrowing his brow, he leaned up against the wall, desperate. Perhaps he could slip in with the royals and escape with them, at least he'd have somebody then, someone to replace the head cook. He was just about to find his way to one of the many doors disguised in the walls when a particular voice caught his ear.

"_My music box!"_

"_Anastasia!"_

Dmitri pushed his ear away from the wall, staring at the plain wood in disbelief. The Dowager's voice, following Anastasia's footsteps, disappeared back the way they came, calling for her. Dmitri followed them from the secret corridors. It was a straight beeline for Anastasia's playroom, where a model of the palace in Moscow was built as a dollhouse for her amusement. Dmitri opened the door to the playroom so it was only slightly ajar, poking half of his face out.

"Anastasia!" The Dowager exclaimed as the girl reached into the Moscow palace and retrieved the ornate box her grandmother had given her. A growling gunshot ripped through the air, causing Dmitri to jump and the Dowager to look around fearfully, as if she knew the bullets that were fired had torn into her son's chest, that they were suddenly trapped. Her ruby coat sweeping around her, the Dowager stood Anastasia up and herded her to the far door. Dmitri's heart leaped up, and he sprung from the hidden door. He could hear the trampling of many boots in the too-near distance. Grasping the coat of the Dowager, he pulled her back.

"Go this way, out the servant's quarters!" He directed. Without a second thought or any revulsion to his lesser form pushing them into the cramped door, the Dowager and her grand-daughter scrambled into the narrow corridors. A soft thud hit the floor as Dmitri pushed the royals in. The pounding of the boots grew louder, making Dmitri realize that his heart was racing faster and louder than horses. He was just about to close the secret door when the young face of the Romanov duchess appeared inches away from his, panic lacing her blue eyes.

Dmitri never noticed that she had blue eyes before. He always thought they were grey.

"My music box!" She said urgently. Dmitri, going against the rules the late cook had raised him by, pushed the duchess back with his unworthy hands, interrupting her.

"Go, _go!_"

The boots roared closer. Dmitri bit his lip as the old hand of the Dowager grasped the duchess's, and they faded into the corridor. One more flash of her blue eyes hit his, and Dmitri slammed the door shut, turning around. A flutter of what appeared to be a white bat was just outside the window, but he was probably imagining it. His heart was rivaling every fast-paced waltz he had ever heard, and he was breathing so hard he feared he would choke from lack of air, it wasn't impossible to see things.

The doors bent inwards from a livid slam. Dmitri's fingers stiffened to claws against the wall. One more crash splintered the doors as several burly, armed men poured into the room, faces snarling in inexplicable rage.

"_Where are they,_ boy?" One demanded. Blue eyes still in his mind, Dmitri scrambled at a flower pot on a nearby end table. Grasping it, he hurled it at the man's face with as much force as his weak muscles could muster. He contorted his face into a snarl as well, an expression that lasted until the man brushed away the remnants of the flower pot and raised the butt of his rifle.

Stars and sunsets and dancing blue eyes sparked in Dmitri's vision as the rifle cracked down on his head, splitting his skull just above his left temple. The kitchen boy collapsed immediately with a soft grunt, his body landing on whatever it was that the duchess had initially come to this room for.

Stars and sunsets and dancing blue eyes.

Stars and sunsets and dancing blue eyes.

_Stars and sunsets and dancing blue eyes._


	2. The Orphanage

_You know what I hate? Going through and proofreading a document, having a friend ALSO proofread the document, post it, then the next morning find a DIRE mistake._

_Case in point? Chapter one._

_WHOA Russian Civil War history discreetly coming your way WOOOSH (History will be more detailed as Dmitri becomes more educated later)_

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**Chapter 2**

Shivering back to life, Dmitri weakly pawed at the expensive carpet, dimly aware of some debris that littered his hair. Groaning pitifully, he willed his thin arms to push himself up off of the floor. Some object or another had been jabbing him in the ribs, but even though he could feel it he couldn't feel the pain that was supposed to follow. Struggling to pull his knees underneath him, he opened his eyes only to immediately shut them again as inky blackness accompanied by various shades of purples greeted him. Closing his eyes again led to a sharp white pain in his mind and he couldn't help but cry out. Pushing the heels of his palms to his eyelids, he moaned softly to send the pain away.

After a few minutes, he gingerly raked the debris from his hair, wincing as his fingers brushed the left side of his head. Carefully he felt the horrible welt on his skull, biting his tongue to help ease the pain. Pulling his hand back to examine it, he was surprised and relieved to see the absence of any blood or scabs. It still felt like his skull had been split in two, though, and that pain was no where near close to fading. Wincing and sputtering quietly to himself, he sat back on his feet and gazed around the room in the dim light.

It was night. The palace had grown cold with the vicious blizzard winds outside, and the only light in the room was from what little moonbeams outside that had managed to reflect off of the snow and into the windows. Coughing, Dmitri wearily looked out the windows, noticing that a few of them were either cracked or broken, allowing the stray snowflake to infiltrate the room. Rubbing his bony hands together, he was suddenly aware that he was _very_ cold. Stumbling to his feet, he dragged himself to the far reaches of the room until he collapsed upon a broken couch. Grasping a blanket of cloth he later recognized as part of the curtains, he huddled against the cushions of the couch, curled up into a thin ball. Being very careful not to rest his head on his left side, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Nightmares plagued him during the last few hours of darkness. Gunshots and screams, blood pooling around bald heads and burly men surrounding him, demanding for the location of a girl. Instead of merely knocking him out with a strike to the head, however, these men aimed the long barrels of their rifles at his skinny chest. Dmitri choked on his tongue in the dream, and before he could say anything in protest or compliance the rifles all fired at once, ripping through his burlap shirt and tearing his body apart underneath.

With a scream of terror he awoke as he tumbled off the broken couch, the back of his head hitting the carpet. After a moment of struggling vainly with the curtain, he righted himself properly once he realized that the curtain was doing him no harm. Giving a disgusted sigh under his breath as he ruefully rubbed the back of his head, Dmitri stood up. Outside the world was pink and lavender, and the blizzard had subsided. Rubbing his arms, he watched as his breaths traveled upwards in a twisted, cloudy fashion. He bent down and gathered the torn curtain from the floor and wrapped himself in it, standing solemnly as he surveyed the room.

One could barely tell that it was once a child's playroom. The model of the Moscow palace had been destroyed, and any traces of anything valuable was removed. Paintings that once hung upon the wall were gone, evidenced by a ghostly outline remaining in the wallpaper. Relics and furniture that were too cumbersome to carry with were destroyed and broken, shards of ceramic and splinters of wood littering the floor. Stepping around the remnants of the once proud room, Dmitri took in every detail, aghast. He had never dreamed in his entire life that he'd ever see such destruction in a royal's home. Reaching down, he picked up the one thing that still shined in the room. It was the jewelry box that the Dowager had given to her grand-daughter. Dmitri turned it over in his hands, examining the fine custom carvings and decorations. He could find no possible way to open it save for an indent in the side, fitted for a very specific key that he didn't have access to.

He cupped the cool metal box in his hands, gazing down at it between the gaps in his fingers. He wondered, then, if the Dowager and her grand-daughter had successfully escaped the angry men. A pang in his chest wondered with him, and he pulled the jewelry box close to his body. Why did he help them in the first place? It's not that he was malignant or anything, it's just that he was wondering such a lowly kitchen boy that had no name to the nobles and the royals would go out of his way to save the lives of those royals, even if, especially if it meant death for him if those burly men had known the truth.

The blue eyes flashed in his mind again and he groaned inwardly. Really? She had never once looked at him until yesterday evening. He pushed the blue eyes from his mind and crept toward the broken windows, lightly stepping over the scattered glass shards. Taking a small gulp of preparation, he craned his neck forward and gazed out to the vast courtyard. Though there was a blizzard that lasted through the night, he could still see traces of color that splayed out like some sort of monochrome map of rivers and lakes painted with very runny ink. Dmitri felt his knees go weak as the freezing wind closed his throat.

It was blood. Royal blood that had mapped out the lakes and rivers of an unknown world over the vast courtyard of the Winter Palace.

If his throat hadn't been frozen, Dmitri would've screamed in shock. The royals were supposed to be invincible, and their blood was supposed to be sacred, yet here they were, dead, with their once sacred blood splattered all over like a child's careless painting. Cupping a hand over his mouth, he ducked away from the window, eyes wide in fear.

What was he to do now? Everything he had ever done in life was in service to the royal family of Russia. Now that they were thoroughly drained of everything that made them superior, Dmitri had no one and nowhere to turn to. He should've left with the other servants when he had the chance, at least they could've shown him a way to live afterwards.

But then, what of the Dowager and the sweet duchess Anastasia? Would their blood be among the map outside? (Or, even more, was their blood already part of the gruesome cartography and his efforts to save them fruitless?)

Dmitri coughed. He had to get out of here no matter what. There was no lingering here. If the rest of Russia was as angry as those men were yesterday, there were no means of survival for him if he stayed in the Winter Palace. Tucking the jewelry box into a pocket he had sewn into the inside of his shirt, he hugged the torn curtain around his bony frame and stumbled back through the secret wall into the servant's quarters, blindly pawing his way until he reached a back door to the outside. Using all of his might he pushed it open, stepping out into the backyard and into the windless dawn. Wrapping the curtain up to cover part of his face, he bent his head down and trudged out into the snow with socked feet, heading for a place, any place other than this.

–

Dmitri's knees were buckling by the time he found himself standing on the front porch of a rickety downtown orphanage. He had been picked up by two fishermen who had found him wandering near the piers of Petrograd at the early hours of the day. The two men kindly led him to the orphanage, one of them standing there with him to wait while the other returned to his normal duties. It took half an hour of pounding on the old door for the caretaker to finally stumble out of bed and answer. He was as rickety as the house, with a face contorted into a nasty complexion. His nose was rather large and crooked, and when Dmitri saw him step grouchily out into the light he leaned away from him, slightly frightened.

The fisherman and the caretaker exchanged words, the fisherman explaining that they had found Dmitri wandering around alone near the piers. The caretaker sniffed down at him, and asked him for his name. Dmitri responded in a voice riddled with cold, telling him his age as well. Before the caretaker could respond, the former kitchen boy added that he could help with the cooking. This earned a craggy glare from underneath old, cracked eyebrows, and Dmitri retreated back into the swaths of the curtain cloak that he had fashioned.

After another short conversation, the caretaker nodded and disappeared momentarily into the orphanage building to gather some papers for recording the new arrival. The fisherman that had stayed with him patted him softly on the shoulders with rough hands. Dmitri shivered under the cloak. Part of him wished that he could live with the fisherman instead of the orphanage. He already hated this place. Closing the cloak around him tighter, he also wished that he had found warmer clothing before he left the palace. Although he didn't look, he doubted there was any rich clothing like that left, as they were all royally lined with soft furs, and things like that were a luxury in Russia. There was no time for regret, though. He didn't want to see the Winter Palace ever again.

The caretaker returned. The fisherman signed his name on the papers handed to him, and gave Dmitri one last pat of good luck before the caretaker herded him inside. Here Dmitri received a half-hearted tour of the orphanage. It was a boys-only orphanage, well known to the piers of Petrograd. Dmitri struggled to catch a glance of the fisherman before he disappeared down the cobbled streets. Sighing heavily, he followed behind the caretaker.

Bedrooms were located upstairs, but he wasn't allowed up there during the day unless he had fallen ill or if there was an issue with overcrowding. The kitchen was down on the main floor along with the dining room, but he wasn't allowed in the kitchen either. There were one or two playrooms on the main floor, and the basement held a boiler and one extra room for miscreants. The owners of the orphanage were two old, musty people by the names of Vinogradov, supposedly husband and wife. Dmitri followed behind Master Vinogradov, sourly thinking to himself that their names well suited them, referring to grapes and all. The only way the names could better match the faces were if, instead of meaning grape, the names meant raisin. Their skin was certainly wrinkled enough to be mistaken for one.

A mischievous grin graced Dmitri's tired features as Master Vinogradov showed him the school room, where he will attend classes four times a week as a mentor will teach them for the entire day then. The other three days of the week will be spent doing chores along with the other boys, with only a few hours left for free time if that was possible. Given by the despising tone in the caretaker's voice, Dmitri guessed that free time hardly ever came, and when it did it could hardly be considered free time. He had more free time when working at the palace, even if it was spent exhausted on his bed.

Without warning the caretaker whipped around with agility that was surprising from such a crotchery old thing and Dmitri jumped.

"What are you grinning about, boy?" the man growled, colorless eyes blazing.

"N-nothing!" Dmitri sputtered in surprise. Scowling, the caretaker made as if to slap him soundly on the cheek, but a sudden glint in his eye made him think better of it and he straightened back up.

"Troublemaker, eh? You've got that look in your eye."

Dmitri stared frightfully at him. He didn't know what to do or say; the caretaker appeared to be quite psychic. He grew steadily more uncomfortable as the old man surveyed his cloak, faded eyes roving up and down.

"That's a nice blanket you've got there. What is it, a curtain?" Dmitri kept his mouth shut and simply stared at the man, searching for any clues as to what might happen next.

"I'll let you go for now _if_ you give me that curtain. It looks absolutely drab on _you_, I could find a better use for it." Dmitri opened his mouth in protest, but the man simply took that as an agreement and snatched the makeshift cloak away from the boy, twirling him around until he hit the floor. The caretaker chuckled as he ran his old gangly fingers along the fine woven fabric.

"Oh, this feels almost like it should be royalty! We could get a nice profit from this, yes," Master Vinogradov turned, chuckling all the way to his quarters as he carefully folded the curtain to make it seem presentable for the black market. Dmitri sat there on the hardwood floor, mouth open in shock and anger. He stood up and glared viciously at where the old man disappeared before taking his time to wander around and see the orphanage for himself, resenting the caretaker all the way.

_Troublemaker,_ huh? The old man hasn't seen anything yet. Dmitri wandered the narrow hallways of the orphanage, taking each bit of information in as a studious scholar, plotting already some fine schemes for petty revenge.

Finding a dusty armchair to rest in, he plopped down and uneasily nursed the welt on his head. He couldn't fall asleep, but he could wait until the sun was high enough for the orphans' day to start. Dmitri winced as he accidentally pulled a hair that was rooted in the welt. Pulling his fingers away, he patted the jewelry box in his secret pocket.

At least he still had that.

–

The rest of the orphans neither accepted him nor rejected him. He had to work through the same hardships each day and through that he was one of them, and yet no friendships or bonds were made, as one of the orphans once whispered to him while vigorously washing the floors, "Bonds were meant to be broken."

That didn't mean that if an orphan was wrongly accused (or accused at all) of something that happened that the others wouldn't stand up for him. There was a sort of unspoken brotherhood keeping the orphan boys together. Though Dmitri participated and was as much a member of the brotherhood as any other orphan new or old, he still felt like he didn't belong and that distant feeling of ridicule still lingered around his head. This time though, he knew exactly why and it was his fault.

A few weeks after he had arrived at the orphanage and once the spring storms had started to rage, the orphans' curiosity got the better of them,and his many roommates asked where he had come from and why he was here. Crowding around his wireframe bed, boys from the ages of four to fourteen all leaned in to hear Dmitri's story as thunder raged and rain poured down outside.

"Why didn't you ask me when I first came here?" He questioned before he began. One of the older orphans answered; he had been here from the start of his life and knew of all the unspoken rules.

"Some of the orphans that come here don't make it more than a few days. They get adopted or taken away or they're too old. After a few weeks, you're one of us."

"So tell us!"

"Where're you from? Why're you here?"

Dmitri frowned in thought. What should he tell them, and how much? Should he lie? No, lying wouldn't be substantial, he should tell the truth. Lying was saved for getting a fellow orphan out of trouble or for causing trouble. He waited until a particularly loud crack of thunder died down before he spoke.

Wishing to not have the same ridicule that he had endured at the palace, Dmitri did not tell them of his origins. He simply had said that he didn't know how be became an orphan, and dismissed his knowledge of being ripped from his mother's womb. Still, even from this partial lie he got many wide eyes and wise nods. Part of him felt bad and detached for not telling the whole truth, as perhaps there were others like him here that too had their mothers die in childbirth. Maybe they even carried the same guilt as him.

It was too late to change his story now, though. From there on in he'd tell them everything about his life. He told them that though he was fuzzy on the details on how he came to work in the palace, (nobody had really taken the time to tell him how he came to be there) that he had served as a kitchen boy for the late royal family for as long as he could remember. He'd peel potatoes and set together meals for the royal picnics, sorting spices and cleaning messes along the way all under the eyes of the strict head cook. He told them of how he often snuck away to catch glimpses of the royal family, something very forbidden for servants to do that he managed to get away with more than once.

"Yeah right."

Dmitri looked up in shock, pulled from his memories to finally glance at his listeners. It was then that he realized that a majority of the orphan boys had fairly skeptical faces about them as they all stared at him. He felt his stomach tighten and his face grow rosy. Only those below the age of five still looked at him in great admiring wonder.

"B-But it's true!" Dmitri protested. The boy who had originally interrupted him crossed his arms. He was around the age of twelve or so, but at that moment he looked more like an aged teenager to Dmitri.

"No it's not," the twelve year old scoffed, "You probably just worked in a kitchen somewhere _near_ the palace. First of all the royal servants would _never_ want a baby to take care of, and second of all _everyone_ knows that everyone who lived in the palace died when it was taken over!"

Dmitri felt heat rush to his head in embarrassment and frustration. Before he could protest a different boy who was a few years younger than him hissed back at the twelve year old, the gaps in his mouth where his teeth should've been were exacerbated by the occasional bolt of lightning.

"Nuh-_uh!_ The grandma survived, people _saw_ her! She's in France now!"

"_Duh," _the older boy rolled his eyes, "She didn't _live_ at the palace!"

"The Dowager is alive?" Dmitri piped in wonder, jumping into the conversation. Excitement seeped into his voice and he found it hard to keep his volume down despite the din outside. The orphans were quiet for a moment, staring at him. Then, one by one, they all began to chatter at once.

"What's a Dowager?"

"Well—,"

"The Dowager is the grandma, dummy."

"He just said that to sound smart, though."

"No, I—,"

"If he _really_ worked at the palace, he wouldn't be alive."

"Yeah, I saw the guys shoot 'em all."

"What? No you didn't, you were here. I remember!"

"Nu-_uh_."

"Yeah-_huh_. You're a worse liar than kitchen boy here!"

"It's not a lie! I worked in the palace!" Dmitri felt pain begin to sting the corners of his eyes as his fists clenched on the low-quality sheets of his bed. Maybe he should've kept lying for his entire life story as well, if he had known the truth would once again find him in a state of ridicule. Frustration welled up inside him, stronger than he had ever known before, and he felt like screaming into their ears until they all believed him. It wasn't fair. He hadn't told the complete truth about his birth to them and they all believed him then, but when he told them the truth about his life they scoffed at him for being a cheat and a liar. Dmitri suddenly found that it was becoming harder and harder to calm down even though he knew that if any noise was heard by the Vinogradovs it would mean a great amount of trouble for him and the orphans.

But he could prove it was true. Against his chest in the pocket of his shirt at all times was the duchess's jewelry box. Although he couldn't open it he could show it off, proving at least some credibility to his story. All he had to do was show it to them and they'd all believe that he'd at least _been_ to the palace. Dmitri's hand moved to the almost insignificant lump in his shirt, itching to take it out.

Blue eyes again.

No, he mustn't do that. If they knew of his treasure and of what importance it supposedly was to the duchess, he'd have to be on his guard at all times. He could wake up one day and find it gone. Many of the older boys were eager to look for ways to escape the orphanage, even if it was by the means of the black market. Unsteadily he removed his hand from the secret pocket. Rain assaulted the windows as he sat there, eyes blazing sharply. He could not intimidate them, however, and they just simply stared at him, glancing at each other occasionally.

"Sure, your majesty," one finally said, "Too bad you didn't serve the royals better, otherwise we still might have them today."

Many of the orphans snickered at this as they crawled away to their beds. Dmitri gave an indignant (and slightly hurt) huff. He knew that by no means he could ever win them all, but he hated losing when he was innocently going about the truth. Similar things had happened with the former head cook and severe beatings that Dmitri didn't deserve, and those were the beatings that were the sharpest in his memory. Though he was simmering, deep down inside he ultimately knew that trying to openly sway their minds would be foolish and have an appearance of lunacy.

Dmitri looked back to his frayed blanket and battered pillow and sighed inwardly. The storm had not ceased in its ferocity, though that was nothing that he was worried about.

A small tap on his knee caught his attention and he looked down. Four or five toddlers still stood around him, staring up with wide eyes.

"You used to live in the palace?" a braver one asked. Dmitri nodded slowly. The wonder in their wide eyes grew immediately, and they all huddled closer around him.

"Tell us about the royals, and the palace, and the food, and, and, what was it like?"

"Tell us everything!"

Dmitri frowned, feeling bitterly weary from all the pent up frustration.

"Maybe later, we should go to sleep."

Some of the toddlers donned vague expressions of fear on their faces, and were quiet for a while as Dmitri stared at them expectantly. The braver toddler swallowed hard before he spoke.

"But...," Dmitri raised an eyebrow, "Some...some of us don't like storms...,"

Dmitri was momentarily surprised. He had never had a fear of storms, as he always had greater things to be afraid of, such as his former master. Blinking at them, he studied their faces in the dim light.

"Alright...but just one story."

As Dmitri recounted the time the head cook was thrown into a river at one of the royal's picnics he felt his eyelids begin to droop. Soon after he finished the rather humorous tale he shooed the smaller orphans to their cots. He fell back into his bed, feeling an overwhelming sense of disappointment in everything. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter what they thought was real or not, but it did not help.

The Dowager was alive though, and that was probably due solely to him. That should fill him with a sense of pride. It did, in a distant sense, but he somehow knew from the sound of it that it would not be wise to brag about such things. Russia, as it sounded from the outside, was in complete turmoil. Men they eavesdropped on from the windows facing the streets promised another internal war to take place soon over the fate of the Russian government. It would be best for him to keep quiet about his previous ties with the royal family, especially when such royalty wouldn't be coming back in the best of situations. The luck of his survival weighed heavily on his head, and though he was tired he found it difficult to fall asleep. Gazing out at the rain that dribbled madly down the glass, Dmitri tried to will himself into slumber.

He had saved the Dowager. Wasn't that enough? Dmitri wished it could be. No one had yet said anything about Anastasia and whether or not she had successfully escaped with her dear grandmother. Perhaps they were keeping the status of her life a secret for her protection.

He shifted. That couldn't possibly be true. With the way gossip spreads in this city the entire country would know after a fortnight of talk. If only he could chase the duchess's eyes away from his mind. He ran his fingers over the jewelry box, knowing that it would be as impossible as her survival.

Forcing his eyes shut, Dmitri fell asleep with a knot in his throat.

–

Master Vinogradov had developed a special sort of detestation for Dmitri a short time after all the winter snows had melted. The feeling was quite mutual. To Dmitri, Vinogradov was a poor, spineless substitute for his first 'father', the head cook. Though Vinogradov had beat him before, the strength in the old man's arms had long left him and his whips could not match the ferocity of the head cook. He was the only orphan who wasn't afraid to be beaten, and that was one of the many reasons Vinogradov hated Dmitri in return. Sooner rather than later, Dmitri's punishments were reduced only to a day or two in the concrete room next to the boiler with little to no food. This, to the orphans, made Dmitri the hallmark of Vinogradov's anger. And he was. Beyond the snarky comebacks, the multiple, almost untraceable pranks, and the constant proving that he was the best at cleaning more than any other orphan was Dmitri's uncanny ability to sneak out and run away, and this was the greatest reason Vinogradov resented him so.

Dmitri had become a Russian Houdini, infamous at the orphanage and to the street the rickety house belonged to. One of the residents on the street had coined that phrase, saying that he was better than the renowned Hungarian himself, and that he and Dmitri should become partners. It was needless to say that Vinogradov didn't like that neighbor much.

Many days would begin with Vinogradov starting roll call. Dmitri would be present for the assembly, but as soon as the old man or his wife got to his place in line he would inexplicably be gone, only to return later that day. The only days he didn't seem to escape were the days the school teacher would be present that day. This was because, as he had told the rest of the orphans one night, that if he didn't have to deal with Vinogradov that day, then he would stay.

The orphans preferred Dmitri to escape more often though. It's not that nobody liked him, far from it. He had, in his own way, become a small idol amongst the boys for the simplest of reasons. One, because he had literally caused Vinogradov to lose all his hair save for his wiry eyebrows (Dmitri had experience with such things after working with yeast in the kitchen, there was a reason why the head cook ended up bald!) and two, because if he had returned after the meager tasteless dinners Lady Vinogradov provided he most certainly had armfuls upon armfuls of fresh food somehow acquired at the local markets. He never told how he got it, but the gradual and continuous disappearance of Lady Vinogradov's various beauty products and tacky jewelry certainly answered the question for everyone. Nights like those all the children went to sleep with fully satisfied stomachs and smiles on their smudged faces.

Dmitri wasn't raised to the favorite of the orphans. He wasn't entirely friendly or talkative to then unless he had brought food for the night. It was as if he knew that ultimately he was on his own and that nobody could change that. It was far from the fact that he disliked them, no. He just simply never communicated with them enough to build any sort of relationship other than something that could almost be called near-worship, especially from the little toddlers that had admired him from the start.

The mischievous kitchen boy had been around royalty all his life even if he never really was around them. Part of him felt truly honored and proud to be such an object of idolization, but most of him felt uncomfortable at the idea. He wasn't supposed to be the worshiped one, the superior one, the one that people look to. All of his life he had been a member of the downtrodden, and that mentality just doesn't change over the course of a summer. Even if his fellow orphans adored him from afar, they didn't see how he was treated in the streets. His drab clothing spoke volumes about him, and many times the wealthier folk in the markets would scowl him away. ('Wealthy', actually, as it seemed everyone was poor now, but that didn't stop some people from taking every advantage to feel above others.) He got to be known as a terrible little miscreant at the fish market, and since that was the only market he could considerably reach within the range of safety with the orphanage chances to swipe food became harder and harder and harder, as Lady Vinogradov had begun to hide her treasures much more carefully and the local public had become wary of his various antics. The nights where he returned with armfuls of food were becoming fewer and farther in between, and Dmitri worried that they would soon cease all together. After all, he not only gathered the food to feed the orphans, but also to adequately feed himself. This totaled up to a lot of food that had be be bartered or stolen, and though at first he had been feasting like the Czar himself, now he was getting by just as much as the average person who lived near the piers did.

He liked the smell of sea water though. Perhaps that was one of the strongest reasons he had a constant urge to sneak out and stay out. The fresh smell of the ocean was something he began to associate with his ultimate freedom. What was it the teacher had said again? Something about Petrograd being the greatest thing Russia sought after some years past, because the port that Petrograd offered would be ideal for the growth of the country. Or something. The teacher didn't really like to clarify.

The smell of the sea was slowly degrading though as the months wore on. Winter was coming. The markets were losing their surplus of food and supplies. Dmitri snuck out less and less until he wasn't sneaking out hardly at all. Vinogradov took this as an opportunity to boast about his power that had finally put Dmitri in his place, which in turn only made Dmitri work with less quality than before from the sheer anger that flushed his cheeks red and upset the best of his cleaning. The orphans wondered what was happening and why Dmitri wasn't pulling any pranks just to pass the time away anymore. Had Vinogradov's boasts really put him in his place? Everyone doubted it, but there wasn't anything else to suggest otherwise.

The days of October ticked on by with the country growing progressively more and more uneasy. The year 1917 was coming to a close, but something in Russia was just starting. Dmitri had felt it in the air when one man who associated himself with the color 'red' rode through the market on a strong-muscled horse, shouting expletives at the commoners and demanding any information, weapons, or provisions to be handed over immediately to whatever the Red Army was. Finding this overly intimidating, Dmitri had just barely escaped without being noticed, slipping in through the unused back door of the orphanage before the red man had time to explore the area more thoroughly. Somewhere in Petrograd something bad had stirred up, causing the upheaval of civil unrest. Dmitri didn't sneak out again after that.

What seemed to be only days later November had passed, and all people associated with the Red Army had suddenly seized the ruling rights of Petrograd by the throat. These Reds, the "Bolsheviks", had claimed the capital of Russia for a new government, replacing what the Czar and his family once were. The looming promise and gossip of war had finally become a reality.

With Dmitri no longer sneaking out for the winter, Vinogradov worked him hard, causing his hands to go raw. Elbows deep in the chemicals needed to clean the floors, Dmitri soon found all of the hair on his arms gone as his skin began to turn an eternal shade of pinkish red, acidic welts spotting his hands. He was hardly allowed to rest or sleep, and soon great heavy bags made themselves a home under his dark eyes. The idolization from the orphans had transitioned to a gray pity, and soon some of them were even disappointed in him. Dmitri felt any dignity and pride he once carried shred away as he cleaned scrub by miserable scrub. The blizzards of Russia transformed the outside world to a desolate white wasteland, and Dmitri kept scrubbing the floors until his arms were transformed to useless swollen appendages.

Petrograd was buried in snow, along with the spirits and personalities of its inhabitants. Everyone was dead to the eye except one abused rebellious little kitchen boy whose birthday had come and gone and who had nothing left to lose save for the secret that he kept in his hidden shirt pocket.

Vinogradov had been working him tirelessly for weeks on end until Dmitri literally could not hold the threadbare rag in his pudgy hands anymore from all the rashes and bruises they had recently acquired. When he had stood up after he was unable to grasp the rag, Vinogradov approached him, horrible grin exposing what little rotten teeth he had left.

"I told you to wash the floor. Are you washing the floor?"

Dmitri gave him a grave look, speaking the _what does it look like_ for him. The craggy caretaker's grin turned into a vicious scowl and he gave the boy a sound slap on the cheek with the back of his hand. He hardly flinched, just furrowed his brow into a hateful grimace.

"I wish it was winter all year!" Vinogradov cheered, unaware of the many heads of the orphans that had popped around the corner, clambering over one another to witness the unfolding drama. The caretaker began rambling on, boasting again about his power over Dmitri and all the orphans, while Dmitri just stood there, looking more and more defiant and angry by the minute.

"You can't tell me what to do." Dmitri finally said quietly, darkly. Vinogradov stopped and glared at the boy.

"Yes I can."

"No," Dmitri snarled, "You can't."

"What are you going to do?" Vinogradov laughed, "Run away?"

No orphan dared to breathe.

"Watch me."

The caretaker stared at him in shock, along with each orphan. Silence reigned.

"You'll freeze out there, boy. Dead."

"_Watch. Me._"

Nothing dared stir. It was a long staring contest until Vinogradov broke the silence with his wheezing laughter, bordering on maniacal.

"And to think _they _all thought you were _smart._ You're as stupid as they come! Dumb as an ass! You go, we'll all watch. You'll come crawling back here, boy. Just you wait!"

Taking the bedsheets for a sparse cloak and wrapping his useless arms in the shredded pillowcase, Dmitri stormed out of the orphanage to the eyes of the orphans, straight out into the icy snows that were almost knee-deep on the eleven year old boy. The harsh winds threatened his tender body as he trudged away into an unforgiving Russian whiteout.

He never turned back.


	3. Papa Vlad

_Ohkay I'm sorry it took this long but this chapter is ginormous so I hope that makes up for it. I have a few things to say too. One of them is, I'm sorry, I lied, it's only going to be four chapters long. This is actually good news for me!_

_Another one is: To whomever "_the accidental russophile"_ is, let's be pals. Pals forever! Yeah!_

_That being said, a big thank you to those who favorited and/or reviewed! You fellows make me happy inside. Another thank you to Luna (you know who you are) who helped me proofread. If the last part of the story seems less proofread than the rest it's because she actually didn't proofread that part, but I'm posting it anyways._

_(Vlad's dialogue is hard to write properly)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The smell of seawater was completely washed away.

Dmitri trudged into the endless white, step after step. Sometimes the snow came up to his ankles, other times his knees were buried in the frozen wasteland. The orphanage seemed years behind him now, and the more steps he took the more and more details he forgot about the rotting house. Even the gritty portrait of Vinogradov's face faded from his memory as he continued onwards, his echoing words lost in the harsh winter winds.

He supposed that he would be cold if he could feel anymore. Long ago in his journey his body became numb to the pain and the freezing temperatures, the only rhythm keeping him alive was the steady one two, one two, one two of his weak steps as he forced his way through the eternal snows that covered Petrograd. When he had first set out he had a general idea of where he was going and what he was doing, but his plan eventually degraded to looking for a simple shelter until the blizzards died down, to wandering aimlessly.

What he was looking for didn't exist for pathetic, unworthy children like him anyways.

Every now and then he would see a building through his squinted eyes. Sure, he was in the middle of the city, but it seemed to him as if he had dropped through to a different universe of snow, ice, and sky. He would approach the most obvious door that he could find on the building and pound on it until somebody answered. Usually he was aiming for buildings that looked like residential establishments, but as the hours wore on he simply walked to any building he could find, hoping for refuge. At times he'd run straight into the walls themselves before realizing that there was a house there. Sometimes even then, after he had collided with it, he would spend a few minutes staring at the wall, as if contemplating its existence.

The people that did answer their doors were of little to no help to Dmitri. More often than not they would look upon him with pity, but offer him nothing, sending him on his way. The longer he trudged forward the less friendly the people seemed to be. Some answered his knocks and asked if he either was the color Red or the color White. When he stammered in confusion for a response they slammed the door on him without another word. Some opened and closed with barely a glance, some deliberately stayed away from the door.

Dmitri had little to no bitterness to them, simply because he was far too cold to think. He was dead to the world, running on nothing but raw instincts. He needed shelter. That's all he could feel right now. No thought, no comprehension, just a need for a shield from a silvery demon that was slowly consuming him. Home? He didn't need a home. Just a release from this frozen hell.

A home was something Dmitri didn't really try to strive for. He was born a servant and still was a servant. Jobs and work had value to him, much more than homes. Perhaps it was because he worked in all of the homes he had ever had. Perhaps his view on home was skewed from his years of labor.

He felt all warmth from him carry away with the cruel wind. Barely able to lift his feet anymore he shuffled through the biting snow, increasingly dragging his feet as time went on. He found himself nearly collapsing, and it was only by his sheer stubborness did he keep on walking rather than fainting into the white abyss. Even if he saw a door now he would not even try at the chance for shelter. Controlled by a single goal, Dmitri followed it, whether it had an end or not. He could no longer function beyond that.

He walked. And walked.

What seemed like eons later he felt his body begin to fail and betray him. Conscious thought gave one last desperate scream in his ears. A small fire burned in his legs and he stumbled forward, a distant cry of panic rising in his chest. He was shutting down, and he knew it. Knew it with such clarity that he could feel an ache in his chest, desiring to live.

Dmitri hurled himself at nearest building, weakly hitting his swollen fists against the door. A pathetic, shaking rasp escaped him in a cloud of ice. His vision grew hazy as he pounded relentlessly, and he thought he heard heavy footsteps from within.

Thin legs finally giving in, Dmitri collapsed on the snow-blown porch. His head hit the wood, cutting on the splinters. Maybe he was shivering uncontrollably, he couldn't tell. Either way the heavy footsteps must've been an illusion his desperate mind played on him. His vision faded away.

Why couldn't the revolutionaries kill him when they had the chance?

"_My God! Bring the child inside, quickly! Quickly!"_

–

Vlad took the fragile thing from the shopkeeper's arms, climbing up the smooth wooden stairs as fast as his thick frame would allow. Holding the skeleton close to his chest, he called down to the shopkeeper, demanding gallons of hot water for a bath.

"You are crazy! That will cost you a fortune, I will not give you hot water!"

"A fortune I have to give. Get the water, now!"

Reaching the top of the stairs, he tossed the child onto the soft rug in front of the fire. Vlad did not take time to stare at the numerous bruises and rashes the child had, instead reaching for his fine fur-lined coat and blankets, tossing them upon the small body. Groaning as he knelt down, he began to vigorously rub the blankets against the boy. The water could not reach him fast enough.

It was true that Vlad was one of only wealthy people in the country at the moment, but he knew all too well that his money wouldn't last. Money was a changing entity in Russia, and the more he spent the less he gained from it. He didn't even know why his foolishness had him install an indoor faucet here in his apartment, but he did, and he was sorely set back by that decision. Perhaps he did it as an ignorant way to claim that the royals and the nobles still thrived. The fact that he had been chased away into a small attic apartment made that statement stale and useless, however, and now he knew he was one day going to suffer for such arrogance.

When the water was thoroughly heated, Vlad pulled the string above the tub, allowing it to fill up. Unwrapping the furs and the thin blanket from the wretch, he ripped the boy's shirt off, exposing the starving frame. Carefully scooping him up in his arms, he dropped the boy into the bathtub. Hot water splashed upon his bearded cheek as he guided the child's head until it was supported above the water. Turning briskly back to his kitchen, he grabbed the worn teapot off of the stove and filled it with cold water from the faucet. Setting it above the flames in the fireplace, he began to pace impatiently, waiting for it to boil. Every now and then he'd glance at the boy lying limp in the tub. He could feel just the sparsest of breaths from the tiny chest, but that was no guarantee that he was alive now, or if he was going to survive.

The shopkeeper knocked on the door and walked in, curious. Vlad waved him away, but he stayed, quite persistent. Adjusting his glasses in a rather irritated manner, he peered at his landlord over the rims, secretly knowing what it was he was after.

"I'll have the money for your hot water, now," the shopkeeper demanded, holding his hand outward in lavish expectations. Vlad looked at his hand, two heartbeats away from spitting on it and slapping it away in disgust. The only thing that stopped him was the shrill whistle of the teapot. Turning away from the shopkeeper, he rummaged out a cup and began to pour the hot water.

"You'll see your precious money _if_ the boy lives. I suggest you leave." Vlad responded darkly.

The shopkeeper, startled at such an angry reply from the usually jolly man, left immediately. Vlad grunted in approval at his hasty exit, muttering sourly about the cost of the rent that he paid. Carefully, as light on his feet as he could, he brought the water to the tub, kneeling beside it. Cupping the child's head in his hand, he gently pressed the lip of the cup to the boy's chapped purple mouth. Some of the hot water dribbled down his chin, but most of it did not spill.

Vlad raked his fingers through the boy's icy, tangled hair, soot and grime soon caking his nails. After a short time filled with constant running back-and-forth to fetch and make more hot water, the boy's skin, particularly his lips, faded from unearthly colors back to the normal paleness, then finally to a soft rosy color. Though this may have been good news Vlad's brow remained furrowed in worry. He did not know how much time he had spent out in the blizzard with nary a scrap of cloth about him, nor did he know how much he had been frostbitten. He was no doctor, and his previously lavish life left him with little experience about the severe effects of a Russian winter. He would like to call for a physician, but no one would travel in this weather.

The water's temperature began to drop to lukewarm. Putting a great cooking pot over the fire, Vlad began to systematically re-heat the tub, being careful to avoid any overflow. Great clouds of steam filled the room, fogging his glasses. Wiping the moisture off, he fidgeted momentarily in anxiety, waiting for the boy to wake if he could.

–

Dmitri felt a huge, soft hand cup the back of his skull, nearly engulfing it. A cool ceramic cup pressed into his lips, hot liquid pouring gently down his throat. It seared his tongue terribly. Uttering a weak grunt of pain, he struggled to flail, finding his legs and arms replaced by heavy sand. The hot water did not stop, burning him more by the second. Shifting ever so lightly in an attempt to squirm away, Dmitri scrunched his face, pulling his lips away from the cup. He grunted again, louder this time in order to be heard. Though the hand still held the back of his head he vaguely heard the cup being set quietly down. Feeling as if the world had lost its gravity, he tried to move his limbs, opening his eyes.

He squinted against the unexpected light and groaned, feebly flexing his swollen fingers. The wooden ceiling was somewhat high, illuminated with a warm glow. He blinked and turned his head, wincing as the bones in his neck popped quietly from the effort. As his eyes came into focus, a large, looming man stared back at him from behind tinted spectacles. He was obviously from some class of sophistication, though he looked a little rough around the edges. A great, thick beard covered half of his face, dark in color but somehow warm in nature, seeing as the beard shifted as the man's lips pulled back in a smile. Gently the man removed his hand from the back of Dmitri's head. Dmitri stared, wide-eyed, unaware that he had huddled against the far side of the tub. The man beamed, however, crow's feet faintly creasing the corners of his eyes as he broke the silence in a hearty voice.

"Ha! Haha, you lucky lad! And what excellent timing too, I was just wondering what I would do about dinner! Now then!"

He groaned in exertion as he struggled to stand up from the floor, using the tub for support. Dmitri's eyes grew wider as he saw just how tall and towering he was. The man brushed some dust off of his rather large stomach, and adjusted his glasses on his face before smiling down at Dmitri. Dmitri gripped himself violently.

"What do you say to a nice stew? You look absolutely famished, indeed!" The smile fell immediately as the man's eyes glanced over the tattered remains of Dmitri's shirt, and he interrupted his thoughts out loud, "Oh, but you need new clothes, nice and proper. I wonder if I have anything...,"

The man shuffled out of the confined bathroom and out of Dmitri's sight. He took this opportunity to allow himself to relax, and he leaned forward a bit, peeking over the edge of the tub. Keeping as much of his body in the comfortably warm water as much as he could, he peered out into the small sized apartment, lit by an inviting fire that gave the drabness of it all a homely glow. Next to the fire was a simple collection of cupboards, together with a newly installed indoor faucet. Near the feet of the tub his burlap shirt sat, crumpled and forgotten next to the ceramic tea cup. Somewhere close he heard the man's deep voice mutter as he rummaged through a closet, looking for the right clothes.

Dmitri sank back into the warm water, ducking his head under. He ran his fingers somewhat vigorously through his matted hair, clawing out the knots and scraping out the grit. Weakly he scrubbed some of the grime off of his body, but he dared not scrub too hard, for his skin was awfully tender and pink. Surfacing, he gently brushed the hair away from his eyes. Though he wasn't clean, it was probably the best he had ever felt in ages, having the water carve a path in the dirt as it slid down his cheeks. Wearily he rubbed the palms of his hands against his face, taking small notice that though they were still swollen, they had calmed significantly from the angry rashes.

Heavy footsteps caused Dmitri to drop his hands, jerking his head upwards as the man shuffled back into the room, a pile of clothes in his arms. He was still smiling, setting down the clothes near the frayed burlap shirt before he turned around.

"Take your time if you wish, the food won't be ready for a while yet."

Dmitri stared unblinkingly at the man until he began to rummage through the cupboards, pulling out spices and potatoes, spoons and forks. He watched for a while, fascinated by the intangible feeling in the air. Something graced his lips, perhaps something that could be mistaken for the tiniest form of a smile, and Dmitri settled back into the water.

Soon a thick, almost maddening smell wafted in through the doorway as a heavy cauldron bubbled quietly over the fire. Dmitri's stomach squirmed and folded in on itself in anticipation and need, gurgling and growling no matter what Dmitri did to try and will the hunger away for just a few more moments. He was perhaps far too well experienced in the consequences of eating raw or undercooked food. Inhaling deeply, he ducked under the surface and pressed his submerged forehead to the side of the tub, grimacing as he clutched his deflated belly. At least he couldn't smell the stew underwater.

Later, as he resurfaced again, he could hear the man humming lowly to himself as he gently lifted the kettle off of the fire. Though he was humming a traditional Russian tune that had a lively melody to it, there was something quite stale to his voice. Happy though the man seemed to be, the melody became wry and taunting beneath that mask, as if the pieces of what used to make the tune so beloved were ripped away.

The man stirred the contents of the pot with a wooden ladle, bringing it up to his lips to taste the stew. Dmitri recognized the look of approval on the man's face, and if his stomach had a voice it would've been whining in joy and triumph. Easing his thin frame over the lip of the tub, he slid down the floor, feeling chilled as the warm water left his body. He reached for the absurdly clean and fine quality clothes, picking up the white shirt. It was big for him, but not as large as the man himself. Dmitri easily fit into it, only slightly dwarfed by the size. It was very loose for a man's shirt, and from what Dmitri knew of fashion, a tad out of date for the times. Still, there were drawstrings about the collar and neck, and he still had a scrap piece of cloth for a belt that he could wrap around his waist. Scooting away from the open door, he undid the makeshift belt and crawled out of his pants and socks, replacing them with the finely tailored trousers the man had provided. These too were quite big, the legs going far past his feet. Rolling the cuffs up to his shins, he tied his belt tightly around both the shirt and the waist of the pants, standing up to make sure nothing fell down. Nothing did, and though he was wearing only the simplest of layman's clothes, Dmitri nearly felt like nobility, standing there in the cleanest clothes he had ever worn. By force of habit, his hand grazed his right ribcage, to reassure himself of the presence of the jewelry box.

He stiffened when he realized that it wasn't there. Of _course_ it wasn't there! Within a matter of seconds panic flared into a firestorm in his head, and he painfully dropped to his knees, clawing at his old burlap shirt. Relief released a tidal wave on his heart as he felt the weight of the box still wrapped in the shirt, the little feet of it clunking softly on the floor. Fumbling with the coarse fabric, he managed to wrench the jewelry box away from the confines of the shirt. Holding it in the palm of his hand, his mind raced, trying to calculate some sort of way to keep the jewelry box on his body. There were no pockets in either his pants or his shirt. He closed his eyes, desperate for an idea.

As he heard the man setting the table just outside the door he thought of a plan, and undid the drawstring around his collar. Folding it in half, he took one end and tied it soundly around the jewelry box in a criss-cross pattern. Taking the other end, he wove it back through the neck line, securing it with many tight and simple knots. Innovation had saved him many times before, and this time was no exception. It always seemed that his greatest innovations came with split decisions, as well as that was true for nearly everything he did. The more he thought about a certain action (unless it was a spiteful prank) the more poorly it ruled out for him.

Just as he dropped the jewelry box down the front of his shirt so it was fairly hidden the man announced with a great voice that the stew was finished. Dmitri found that his hands were trembling, possibly from excitement, possibly from fear. He took a gulp of air and tentatively emerged from the washroom.

Still humming, the man sat himself down at the table. The pot of stew was the centerpiece, and the swirls of steam reached upwards, spreading the hearty smell into the small apartment. It was so inviting, so out of place in Dmitri's memory that he felt like he was looking at a motion picture, accompanied by atmosphere, smell, and sound. He warily approached the table, watching as the man reached over and scooped stew onto the boy's plate. Slowly Dmitri sank into his seat, the man quietly beginning his meal.

Watching him eat only confirmed Dmitri's earlier conjectures. This man was definitely some sort of noble, either past or present. He held a great air of etiquette around him even though this was by no means the place or time to have a sense of royal dignity.

Dmitri bit his lip and gripped his fork furiously to prevent his fingers from trembling. He was confused and greatly intimidated. Not knowing how to act in front of the man led him into a state of total perplexity. He was at a loss for himself. The only one in the world that had treated him with kindness was the head cook, and even then the kindness was so brash and abusive that Dmitri had learned to respond in pranks and mischievous behavior in turn. Tough love for tough love. Vinogradov had treated him much worse, so Dmitri treated him with much less restraint on his impish ambitions. But this, Dmitri had not seen one act of negativity cross the man's face. Even more, there wasn't a hint of dictation in his jolly voice. His hand had in turn frozen around the fork, both waiting for a command and wondering if he needed a command. How should he even _eat? _He stared half-longingly, half-painfully at the plateful of food. Why was he now feeling such splitting pressure on his forehead when politeness and appearances never had a second thought in his mind before?

"You need not wait for the snows to subside for you to eat, lad. I know you are absolutely famished!" the man pointed out rather bluntly after seeing how white Dmitri's knuckles were. Dmitri jumped, startled at first, but needed little else for him to voraciously clean his plate.

From over the top of his glasses the man silently watched the boy as he shoveled every last drop of the stew on his plate down. He hid his smile quite well, and continued eating as if Dmitri wasn't making an absolute hog of himself. There was in reality only a very small mess made, as the boy made sure that he was not missing a lick of the stew.

"You could, as well, perhaps slow down so you don't fall ill." The man chuckled. Looking ever so slightly ashamed, Dmitri gulped down the mouthful he had, and tried to make an effort to at least chew before he forced the food down. It made the stew taste better that way anyways, Dmitri noted. Not that the stew tasted bad in the first place, it's just that most of the flavor was lost as he ate so gluttonously. He realized then just what a luxury the stew was for being nothing more than a poor man's soup. Well, considering the contents it was far from a poor man's soup, and far above the awful meals he received from Lady Vinogradov. There were potatoes, of course, in a thick broth flavored thoroughly from the chunks of meat cooked with it. Actual meat! Dmitri hadn't tasted such a thing in months! And, indeed, there were traces of pulpy sugar beets as well. To think that he was dining with a man that could afford such foods! Even in the palace sugar beets were regarded as the gold of the foods, especially when it came to sweets and desserts. Dmitri used his fork to scrape every last scrap of food left off of the plate.

There were people in the world that still could live like this?

Given that yes, this was a rather small, unimpressive apartment for someone of such wealth, but if he could afford quality meat and sugar beets, he could afford anything.

Dmitri stared blankly at his empty plate. His stomach begged for more, but sitting beneath the eyes of what must've been a very important man at one point, Dmitri couldn't bear to reach out to the ladle to serve himself some more stew. He crossed his feet to stanch the hunger even though his belly growled loudly and he gazed mournfully at the kettle that still had food in it. The man waved Dmitri off and nodded towards the pot, welcoming him to the rest. With barely a moment's hesitation Dmitri nearly leaped from his chair, scooping all that was left from the pot to his plate. The man watched, no longer hiding his wide smile beneath his full, bushy beard.

Had Dmitri's voracity been exaggerated more he would've licked the plate clean. It did not take long for him to finish off the rest of the stew, his stomach feeling truly full for the first time in his short life. He was lost in his own world for the longest time as he ate, and he only emerged from his hazy dream once every last drop of the broth was licked from his lips. It was then that he again realized his situation, and he immediately fell dead silent, feeling an awkwardness press down on his shoulders. He stared across at the man, who was occupying himself by wiping his mouth with a napkin. Dmitri was contemplating whether or not he should fearfully respect the man, and his mind wasn't giving him any good scenarios if it ultimately boiled down to receiving whippings from a man with such girth in his muscles. Involuntarily he drew his skinny limbs inwards, feeling very small and mouse-like in comparison to this great man.

The man in question muffled a burp into the napkin and set the cloth down softly on the table. There was a short moment of silence where Dmitri stared, unsure, and the man busied himself with trivial issues, such as cleaning his glasses properly. Dmitri felt his arms begin to tremble again, and he wished that the day would progress further so he would finally know what he was now going to live like, if he was going to live here.

"So tell me," the man finally said after he adjusted his glasses just so on the bridge of his rounded nose, "Where are you from, and what in heaven's name were you doing in that blizzard?"

A moment of blankness passed. The man soon added that he would also like to know the boy's name. Silence passed again. Dmitri clutched the edges of his chair.

What was there to tell?

There was _everything_ to tell. But why tell it? The truth had wound around itself before when he had told his stories to the orphans at the orphanage, and the truth of his origins earned him a status of court jester amongst the mini-hierarchy of the servants. He shut his eyes tight and gritted his teeth. What was there to tell? What _was_ there to tell? Should he tell him the truth and risk wounding his depleted pride even more? Should he lie? How could he lie, there were so little believable stories out there that even the truth seemed to be a lie. If he followed that logic, he could say anything and get away with it being the truth. He could even say that he escaped from the clutches of the Baba Yaga, and through some sort of magic that could only be rightly fabricated with the right state of mind it would become a truth in its own right.

Dmitri opened his eyes and glanced up to see the man frowning in deep thought as he stared at him, waiting for a response. A pang of wrong struck Dmitri's chest and he shut his eyes again, ducking his head between his shoulders as if he was expecting a retaliation. When none came after a short while, Dmitri sputtered and blurted out his name in an attempt to prolong the punishment that he thought was sure to follow. When yet again nothing happened, Dmitri started to wonder but was too frightened to glance up.

"Dmitri...," the man breathed quietly. Dmitri looked up as he continued, "You wouldn't just happen to be the boy who worked in the Czar's palace, now would you...?"

Dmitri's eyes widened and his mouth hung open in shock. Finding himself dumbfounded, he was unable to speak. The wide smile returned to the man's beard and he once again laughed rather boisterously.

"You were the one! I knew you looked familiar! No, I don't suppose you recognize me all that well." The man pushed the pot away from the center, allowing for a conversation to be more politely conducted, "You probably _do_ remember me, you just don't know it. Hmm," he pinched his forhead lightly, "How to begin...Well, it was a court dinner, yes, I, being a member among the Duma, sat near the end of the table. I believe it was the Petergof Palace? Anyway, if I'm correct it was you who was the mischievous servant boy who stowed himself away in a food cart and had crawled beneath the table without notice."

Dmitri felt his face grow hot as his ears turned into a flustered shade of red. The man saw this and laughed again.

"It _was_ you! Ha! I knew it!" he slapped the table in great jest, and Dmitri was fairly glad that he was too occupied to notice his nervous jitter from the suddenness of the action, "I suppose, then, that you know most of the rest of the story?"

Yes, he remembered and knew all to well. Once little Dmitri had found himself successfully hidden underneath the table, he had proceeded to crawl about, fiddling with the nobles' boot laces, buckles, or anything else he could efficiently mess up without the wearer notice Those with laces were at an extra level of deviousness, for Dmitri then tied the laces tightly together. Over half of the boots had been meddled with by the time he got caught. He was in the midst of undoing a fairly tough knot on one noble's boots when the noble dropped both his fork and a grape onto the floor. It was at this point that Dmitri froze, laces in hand, as the noble bent down to retrieve his fork; this of course leading to the noble watching the grape roll steadily to rest between the now-petrified servant boy's knees. Dmitri forgot the rest, but he remembered the noble bidding him a surprised salutations, the head cook's raging yells, and one of the most exhilarating and dangerous chases he had ever caused and embarked on in all of the ten years he had lived there.

"You looked positively scared when I saw you undoing my laces, then." The man concluded.

Dmitri's face drained from red to white.

This man clearly had an impeccable memory.

Irrationality gripped the boy, delving to such depths as to even have him wish that he hadn't left the orphanage run by Vinogradov. He was stuck in a situation where he didn't know what to do, and couldn't figure out what to do. What would the previous noble expect him and want for him to do? So many thoughts, memories, and possibilities crashed through his mind that Dmitri could only utter tiny squeaks in response. Heeding only to his roots and instincts, Dmitri soon found himself thrown at the man's feet, curved over in a much practiced posture for forgiveness.

"Oh—for heaven's—stand _up_, lad! I didn't mean to frighten you, child." Shakily, Dmitri kept his gaze down as he obeyed the man's order. As he stood there he noticed that he was indeed visibly trembling. A warm hand gently grasped his arm. The man's voice softened to a kind tone as he spoke again, and for some reason Dmitri felt it unbearably difficult to hold back tears.

"Listen, the royalty is gone. Look at me, even. I have money, but no status. I am rotting here under a merchant landlord. There is no longer a place for nobles in this world, which means that the servants have nobody to serve." Dmitri looked up into the man's eyes, finding a sort of unknown reassurance in the spoken words. The man smiled warmly back at him, "Besides, nobody deserves to be stuck out in a Russian blizzard, yes? You may call me Vlad, if you wish. Short for Vladimir, which is short for something else entirely that isn't important."

Vlad stood up and stretched his great limbs, yawning loudly. Dmitri stepped back to give him some room as he started clearing the table. A sort of unknown familiarity welled up inside of him. It was a good, warm feeling. Because Vlad already knew of his origins and humble back-story, he didn't feel like there was any need to lie or cheat his way around just to avoid ridicule and pity. However, Dmitri wouldn't tell him everything. No, there were some things that Dmitri wished to keep forever secret, possibly even to his grave. The jewelry box dangled between his chest and shirt, materializing his wants.

But still...he may just come to like Vlad. It was far too early to say anything for sure yet, but...

Dmitri curled up on his temporary bed, pulling the soft fur blankets closer to him as the fire burned low. His stomach ached rather painfully from the amount of food he had eaten so quickly, but he ignored it. He was too happy at the moment to dwell on his trivial sickness. The skuzzy bandages that had been wrapped around his puffy arms were removed, and though certain fingers and parts of his feet weren't working as smoothly as they were before he set out into the blizzard, he was still ultimately in one piece. Wrapped so tightly within the blankets that he seemed to be nothing but a mere scrawny lump, he made sure that he wasn't resting on the jewelry box before he closed his eyes. Vlad had a rather loud and roaring snore, but Dmitri wasn't bothered in the slightest. He had learned from early on how to fall asleep through almost anything.

The fire crackled lazily as Dmitri quickly fell into slumber, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips.

–

It was confusing and unfamiliar at first, but Dmitri quickly adapted to living with Vlad. It was more of an unspoken thing that he had learned to accept; Vlad was probably the best somebody that had ever looked after him, and even though kindness towards a lowly kid like him was of the utmost strangeness to Dmitri he learned that he was probably the luckiest orphan on earth to be rescued by him. Though he was kind and good to him, Dmitri never really found his role in the apartment. He would help clean what little there was to clean, but since he was not Vlad's servant and there wasn't really anything else to do, he often found himself feeling as though he was the missing piece to an entirely different puzzle and that he didn't belong in this one. He wouldn't leave Vlad, no. He liked him too much to even consider straying away. Vlad believed him even when he very well knew that Dmitri was lying. For once Dmitri's voice did not fall on deaf, narcissistic ears. Here, with Vlad, Dmitri could finally relax.

As soon as Dmitri felt incredulous amounts better and once he had finally regained some fat on his bones and softness to his face, Vlad sent him straight to the books. Though he was awfully illiterate and very poorly read, Vlad was a patient mentor and gently guided Dmitri through his education. Dmitri then learned that the teacher that appeared every so often at Vinogradov's was indeed very awful and really of little use to the orphans. After all, Dmitri started out believing he could write until Vlad frowned and pointed out that there weren't any words in the fake letters Dmitri had learned under the teacher at Vinogradov's. Vlad soon found that he quite had his hands full in tutoring the young boy. However, it wasn't entirely difficult to clean his slate and move on. Dmitri soon poured over books upon books for his studies as instructed by Vlad. And he didn't mind all that much either—it kept him from the horrific edge of boredom.

His studies focused mainly on language, aristocratic and peasantry culture, and the history of Russia, though Vlad focused mainly on Petrograd. Here he learned that an ancestor of the Romanov line known as Peter the Great had conquered the Swedish lands and established the new capital that he quaintly named Petrograd, where the now broken Baroque palace was erected. From then on the Romanov line passed down from Catherine to Alexander II and finally to Nicholas II. Vlad, however, avoided the subject of the final Czar all together, despite Dmitri's wondrous and hurt gazes. He learned very little of history from that moment on, and his studies focused heavily on language from there on in.

The first year was rather good. Dmitri and Vlad occasionally wandered out to the markets, and as more lessons passed with the days Dmitri grew increasingly attached to Vlad, sooner rather than later giving him the nickname of "Papa Vlad". The man had become cemented in Dmitri's life for sure.

He had never quite lived like this before. For once his clothes fit him, his face was clean, his belly was always sufficiently full, and he wasn't living under fear. Dmitri was in such a different world he almost found it hard to believe that he was still a child of the harsh mother Russia.

Almost.

As the year drew to a close, Vlad increasingly grew more nervous and preoccupied with his own thoughts. Dmitri began to keep himself on alert around him, but his Papa Vlad always kept his jolly outlook about him, for both caution and the child's sake.

The following year, however, Dmitri saw a gradual change of nearly everything that had made his new life. Vlad became stingy at the markets and the shops, eventually stating that they would have to make do without sugar beets, even if they were cheap off the black market. Soon too other foods became scarcer in their home, meat and dairy products dwindling swiftly. When various objects, clothing, and trinkets began to disappear around the apartment, Vlad seemed to be in a constant fit of worry. Paying a keen eye to the happenstances, Dmitri learned the economics of their dilemma from the times that the landlord stormed up the old stairs.

Vlad's money was running out, and whatever they had left was losing value fast. Soon they had to turn to peddling away possessions, even old photographs of Vlad's family and his dear separated sweetheart. Pots of stews and soup were drained of their flavor, stripped down to potatoes, sunflower seeds, and perhaps some corn if they were lucky. Dmitri and Vlad thinned noticeably, and Vlad had all but lost his positive demeanor. Dmitri became more and more wary of him even though he had not yet laid a hand of harm on him. They had at least thanked God that it was still summer and that winter was far away.

But even then their hopes were not high. Violent riots and fights were often heard in the middle of the night, and there were some hours that Dmitri lapsed back to the trauma of the revolution, and had begun to shiver uncontrollably, hyperventilating on the cold hardwood floor. Vlad could only then scoop him up in his big arms and hold him almost too tightly until the boy shuddered into a fitful sleep. There were no blankets or beds left to calm him; the nights where Dmitri experienced his own special sort of shell shock were the worst for both tenants.

It was when men from the outside took the shelves full of books that Vlad stood there, darkly muttering with his hands stuffed into his pockets, "Damn the revolution, and damn this war." Dmitri would look back on this moment later in his life and declare that this was the critical turning point for them both, changing them forever.

Their lowest day hit with autumn. Vlad had gone out to do some desperate negotiations with the landlord. While loneliness, boredom, and a bad fit of lost hope weighed heavily on his mind, Dmitri sat on the floor in front of the unused fireplace. Jewelry box in hand, Dmitri ran his fingers over the gilded carvings and the jade stones. He wondered what could've been inside it, wondered what kind of jewelry the grand duchess liked best. Or maybe the possibility that it wasn't even a jewelry box at all? But that's what she had said, hadn't she?

_Hadn't_ she?

Dmitri's head throbbed as he strained his memory. Something small in his mind whispered that she had not called it a jewelry box at all. But if that was true, what _had_ she called it?

"That...," Dmitri looked up, startled, to see Vlad in the doorway gazing intensely at the jewelry box as if lost in a trance, "Where did you get that?"

Inadvertently Dmitri pulled the jewelry box closer to his body, never taking his eyes off Vlad as he slowly walked into the desolate room.

"What _is_ that...?" Dmitri shifted, not answering as thousands of alarms blared in his ears. Vlad drew closer, one hand stretched out, "Let me see that...!"

Clutching the box tightly, Dmitri pulled his hands away even though Vlad dangerously towered over him.

"Give that to me, Dmitri," Vlad demanded. Dmitri took in a sharp breath, and in the only words of defiance he had ever spoken against his Papa Vlad, blurted out a simple, short "No."

Vlad did not move, "Give that to me."

"No!"

Dmitri's heart began to race in fear.

"Dmitri...,"

He shook his head, scooting backwards away from the older man.

"Dmitri...!"

Breaths meeting his frantic heartbeats, Dmitri made no response. A frozen silence stood between them, separating them until Vlad's expression underwent the most hideous transformation Dmitri had ever seen. The heavy man, much more agile that one would think, lunged for the jewelry box. Dmitri screamed and fell backwards, kicking up so as to deter Vlad from reaching him. Vlad's hands pawed viciously at him, trying to pry the box from the boy's fingers. Dmitri squirmed and writhed, shouting in protest and flailing as hard as he could to try and save the grand duchess's jewelry box.

Vlad caught Dmitri's ankle in one of his desperations and began to drag him across the unkempt wood floor, shaking him like a fish. Blue eyes screeched in Dmitri's mind, flaring such a vibrant, angry cobalt that Dmitri couldn't tell what was more painful: Vlad's sudden betrayal and outrage, or the mocking memory of the duchess. Choking and gurgling as the big man knocked him about the floor, Dmitri scrambled for freedom even though he knew all too well that winning against Vlad in a contest of strength was a shot into dark waters. It wasn't long before Vlad had flipped him over and had grabbed hold of the jewelry box, tugging and yanking as he tried to wrench it free from Dmitri's stubborn fingers. Blue fire seared his mind, and as he felt the box slip precariously from his fingertips Dmitri gave one last plea before he lost everything that he ever was.

"_It's Anastasia's!_"

Vlad stopped. Dmitri struggled some more even though it was futile, realizing only now that tears had been madly scrolling down his cheeks. Something cracked underneath his body, and as he scooted away he realized that Vlad's glasses had fallen off and had broken upon impact. Slowly Vlad retreated, sober sanity returning to his features. Sniveling wretchedly, Dmitri pushed himself away, unable to get both the blue eyes and Vlad's hideous face out of his mind.

Vlad murmured a low apology and turned away in light of what he had done. He faced the empty cabinets, gazing off into space. It wasn't so much the name of the box's owner, but more hearing a comprehensive tearful plea from the child—barely a teenager—as he suffered from the fear, violence and betrayal that Vlad suddenly reigned down on him. And, when he gave thought to the previous owner of the box, and the multiple episodes of trauma the poor boy experienced, Vlad felt even worse about his aggression. It was true that he did not know the details of Dmitri's involvement on the night of the revolution, but he knew that the boy had witnessed things that no child should be allowed to witness.

And, Vlad realized, that was all the boy had.

That was all _they_ had, and to give away the last of their possessions...

Vlad sighed heavily and turned around to see Dmitri huddled around himself, staring frightfully up at him. What a fool he was to torture this child.

"Sit up, Dmitri," The boy flinched, "Please do."

His voice wasn't soft but it was low and serious, aware of its surroundings. Dmitri, keeping the box firmly in his hands, shifted until he was sitting as properly as one could on the wooden floor. Groaning, Vlad slowly lowered himself down until he too was sitting across from the boy. Picking up his spectacles though the glass was cracked and the wire frame was horribly bent, he placed them carefully on his round nose.

"Now, you're going to have to memorize what I say because we do not have books nor do we have pen and paper," Vlad began, avoiding Dmitri's gaze, "Today you'll learn about the late royal family."

–

The first time Dmitri stole, it was a small sack of potatoes easily hidden in a loose shirt. He hadn't been caught and even if he was at least followed his pursuers would've been lost in the winding false paths that he wove in between crowds of poor, gray, unhappy people. Arriving home unscathed, he presented the sack to Vlad, somewhat shyly, but outwardly proud.

At first Vlad stared at him, slowly calculating what the boy had done. Dmitri had watched as his face scrunched up, relaxed, then scrunched again as he struggled to decide what to do with something that was such a crime yet such a necessity at the same time. After what seemed like a long while, Vlad finally leaned down so he was level with Dmitri, gently taking the bag of potatoes.

"Don't you dare get caught, child. Ever."

Dmitri smiled mischievously in response as Vlad straightened up with a small smile of his own. As he gathered up what little wood they had for a fire, Dmitri tilted his head to the side.

"Papa Vlad?"

"Yes?"

"I saw posters up at the market,"

"...Yes?"

"Who's Lenin?"

Vlad paused in striking the flint. Dmitri approached him and leaned down, glancing curiously to the side at the man's stone, grim features.

"It doesn't concern you. I advise that you forget it."

"Yes, but they're—,"

"Everywhere? Yes. I know." Vlad began to busy himself by striking the flint again, sending sparks onto the flaky wood.

"I thought you said that we're at war and that nobody's a leader at the moment." Dmitri asked, distracted by the numerous sparks.

"Well...," he began to strike the flint much more quickly, as if secretly angry about something, "It's one-sided, Dmitri. Everyone knows who's going to win this war."

"Then why is it taking so long?"

A shred of wood lit up, and Vlad set the flint down to nurse it into a flame. Dmitri backed away as the heat grew, waiting somewhat impatiently for an answer. Vlad sighed as the fire healthily licked up the chimney, straightening back up.

"The losing army outnumbers the winning army. They have a lot of men to throw at the victors before they forfeit. Don't ask me, I'm not a part of the politics," Vlad turned and looked Dmitri straight in the eye before the teen could interrupt with another question, "And _you_ shouldn't be either. Don't _ever_ get caught up in politics, much less those. It'll eat you up, my lad. Forget Lenin. Help me with the potatoes, will you?"

Dmitri nodded solemnly though the questions still burned in him. Nonetheless, he heeded Vlad's advice well. Before the harsh winter set in, he had created a sort of business off of the stealing of foods and goods. At first Vlad just innocently sat by and turned a blind eye to the crimes, but he soon got into the act too. Contacting people he had known through the black market, he started some petty forgeries of birth certificates (to avoid the drafting for the civil war on either side) and had begun to gather up great bargaining skills—especially useful when Dmitri was able to get away with more theft than usual. Though they barely survived through the winter, they were much better off than the beginning of autumn, and though it was a fickle business they had found a sort of routine to their activities, keeping their heads just above the water.

But the boy's questions remained.

–

By the time he neared his sixteenth birthday, Dmitri had stretched out into a lean frame, taller and stronger though he had yet to reach his full height. The softness that was in his cheeks disappeared, replaced by a sharp jawline and a crooked nose. As the years had crawled by he had gained a much more rebellious and risky attitude, constantly pulling antics that nearly gave Vlad heart attacks when he heard of them. Stealing meat in the plain sight of a soldier then dashing across many of Petrograd's streets before losing the soldier via a secret path to the black markets, following this path until he reached the small apartment; really, it was as if he was suicidal.

Vlad suddenly saw a growing number of wealthy items gathering up in their apartment—too wealthy to be foolishly displayed at the markets for fear of a thief such as Dmitri snatching it up at the first opportunity. After a week of jewelry and various trinkets piling up in the closet, Vlad finally confronted him about it, to which the teenager revealed that he had been sneaking into the abandoned palace for the past week and a half.

Nearly choking on his tea, Vlad sputtered incomprehensibly for a moment. It was rumored that a number of one of the civil armies were stationed there, and if Dmitri was sneaking around and taking their things then he might as well have sealed a death sentence for himself. However, the reckless teenager assured him greatly that he had seen no trace of any soldiers anywhere near the palace. On one hand, Vlad took this as possibly good news, for it could mean that the civil war was coming to an end and the casualties within the city would not rise. (It had been a small miracle that he and Dmitri had survived, being in an attic apartment and all.)

On the other hand, Dmitri could've been lying.

But it wasn't like Vlad had any control over it. Dmitri was gaining more independence by the minute, and though he was fiercely loyal to Vlad, the man no longer had much say in anything the teenager did. It was just as well, he supposed. Dmitri was not Vlad's son, and they had met too late in Dmitri's life to act like a father should act towards him. The added threats of hypothermia and starvation also made sure that they were comrades more than family. At least he still listened to his wiser words.

Sometimes.

But that was part of being a teenager, Vlad mused. Especially one in a world where everything was so free to do, thanks to the partial anarchy that had gripped Petrograd and the rest of Russia for the past six years. Nothing would stop him from worrying, however. And _that_, he assumed, was part of being a parent. Where was his dear Sophie when he needed her? This child was becoming much more than he could handle.

So very unnervingly more than he could handle.

A commander of the Red Army had found his way to the secret black market paths. From here he had proceeded to weed through the various shopkeepers and the tenants of the black market, finding the strong young boys and immediately recruiting them as a fellow soldier. Later it would be learned that this was offered as an alternative to the inevitable, but nobody believed such a thing would happen at the time.

The commander eventually found his way up the old staircase to the attic apartment that Vlad and Dmitri were dwelling in. Dmitri had returned from his thieving duties early when he saw the commander roaming the streets on his horse, and had warned Vlad about his presence earlier, so all of the most valuable things were stored in the compartment underneath the closet that they had constructed several years prior after the grand duchess's jewelry box had been revealed to Vlad. By the time the commander entered, he saw nothing but a simple apartment with simple necessities (including a rare indoor faucet, the only thing that looked off color in the room.) It wasn't long until the commander's real purpose became clear the moment he saw Dmitri.

At once the commander spoke highly of the boy, coaching and appealing to Dmitri's sense of danger and adventure. He spoke of how he was well suited for the nurturing of the motherland, and presented much more evidence that provided a smoke and mirrors defense around what the Red Army was really standing for. It's not that Vlad knew or cared what army the commander belonged to, but he dismissed him at every turn despite Dmitri's interjections and rising anger.

"You have no place to reject the Red Army!" The commander finally roared in Vlad's face. Undeterred due to his vast amounts of experience arguing in the imperial courts, Vlad puffed out his chest and stood as tall as he could, which was intimidating even to the commander.

"I have a _right_ to decide what he does and doesn't do. As his master and caretaker, he is under _my _supervision and _my_ supervision alone. He will _not_ join your petty army. Aren't you winning the war, anyways? Why do _you_ need to recruit children such as this one?"

"I'm not—,"

"Interested," Vlad finished for Dmitri, folding his great arms across his chest as he narrowed his eyes down at the commander. The commander sneered at him.

"He looks to be a fine teenaged man! You'd do best to hold your—,"

"_Some_ of us mature and grow much more faster than _others_." Vlad finalized, glaring through his glasses. The commander, after a minute's consideration, dropped his jaw at such a crude, inappropriate comment from the man. Thoroughly insulted so much so that his face was as red as the star on his hat, the commander, flustered, stumbled across his words and retorts.

"You'll..._you'll..._You'll _dearly regret_ toying with the Red Army!" He barked before he turned on his shined boots and marched down the stairs back to where his horse was waiting. Disgruntled, Dmitri marched along, intent on following the commander down. Vlad's mighty hand came down on the teenager's shoulder, however, and yanked him backwards, slamming the door shut and barring the way before Dmitri could make a dash for it.

"Why wouldn't you let me go with him?" Dmitri demanded, fists clenched. Sternly, Vlad walked up to him, already having steeled himself for the coming argument.

"Because you _don't_ want to go with him." He said lowly, strictly. Dmitri frowned angrily, stepping up onto his tip-toes to make himself appear taller.

"What would _you_ know about what I want and don't want? You just sit here all day and write papers!"

"Don't be a brash _fool_, lad! You do not know what it's like, much more what _they're_ going to be like!"

"_You_ don't even know what they're like!" Dmitri retorted, "You and your 'nobility', always afraid of anything different!"

"Sometimes that's the appropriate reaction," Vlad growled, "Dmitri, you don't know what you'd be getting into. Under different circumstances, I wouldn't mind. But this? _This_? This idiotic civil war? No, you are _not_ going to choose a side based on your sense of danger."

"What do sides matter, anyways? At least I'd be on the _winning_ army!" Dmitri shouted, jaw clenched in a failing attempt to control his temper.

Vlad's face darkened immensely in response to Dmitri's statement. The miserable wretch! Had he not learned better than this?

"I want to _do_ something, to actually _be_ somebody _important_! I _want_ to fight!" Dmitri continued, hoping to win something through those statements. Vlad sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, and looked back to Dmitri's over-confident stance.

"No."

"I can if I want! You can't tell me what to—,"

"_Yes_, I _can._"

"No. You. _Can't!_"

"You horrible brat!" Vlad exploded, causing Dmitri to flinch in surprise, "Shut your mouth and hold your tongue! You haven't the _faintest _idea what war is like! Men do not recover from it, even when fighting for a just cause!"

Dmitri scoffed, though he was a bit more wary now than he was before, "And what would you know of that?"

Vlad took off his glasses and looked Dmitri in the eye. Dmitri blinked, but kept his hardened features.

"I was there. When the Czar made the uplifting albeit naïve decision to visit the front lines, I was there. Back before the treaty of Brest-Litovsk, back when the Great War ravaged the earth. I saw everything, Dmitri. _Everything_."

Dmitri had the urge to give an uncaring retort, but his good sense kept him silent.

"Men who had lost their minds. Men who had nerves that were worse than a mouse's. Men whose souls they had lost along with their severed limbs, melted faces, infected, bloated tongues. Men who had lost their identity among the realms of the dead and dying. There were no survivors there, Dmitri. Their body came home alive, but who and what they were died the instant they stepped onto the battlefield. You dared not step forward, for there could be a shelling that would blow you apart the moment you exposed your face. Dmitri, you remember how you reacted when a violent fight broke out on the streets below, do you?"

Dmitri's face flushed red and he took a step back, "That doesn't happen to me anymore!"

Vlad ignored his defensive response, "Imagine that, and multiply it by the largest number you can think of. And then, add the asylum with it."

Dmitri didn't try to imagine, simply because he didn't _want_ to. Vlad's eyes shifted to a knowing look, and Dmitri's insides squirmed along with it, knowing that his victory was far from his reach now.

"Dmitri, that insanity doesn't go away. You only knew a small teaspoon of what could be a massive tank of trauma. They called it 'shell shock', and as far as they knew, there was no cure. None. You'd be living with that anxiety your _entire life_ afterwards, if you even lived, Dmitri,"

"A-Alright, fine," Dmitri interrupted, raising his hands in the air, "I get it—,"

"_Do you_, Dmitri?" Vlad asked, "Or do you just not want to hear me finish what I have to say?"

"No! I get it, okay?"

"And the minute I turn my back you'll race out the door to the Red Army, won't you?" Vlad accused. Dmitri stuttered in a fit of confusion, and was unable to answer.

"Need I remind you that it was the Red Army, the Bolsheviks, that conducted the revolution against the Czar and his family?"

Dmitri flinched. He hadn't thought about that. Had he been thinking at all? He grasped one of his arms and looked to the side. For the first time in a couple of years, the images flooded back to him; the head cook's bald head lying in a pool of blood and white flakes, the confusion in the servants, the urgency of the Czar's voice, the fear and determination in the blue eyes. Could he have really been so blind as that, to become a soldier amongst the ones that shot and killed the family, possibly even that very grand duchess herself?

A disturbing image of the girl's body lying twisted and twitching as gun shots tore her apart made him wince, and as he fought back the very insanity that Vlad had been mentioning before he looked back up at the man who cared for him.

"Vlad, I...,"

Dmitri stopped as he stared at his face. For the first time it finally occurred to him that Vlad looked very old. The crow's feet around his eyes deepened so that they appeared even when he wasn't smiling, the bags underneath them sagged with the great stress that he bore, and the tone of his skin was uneven, littered with faint liver spots. Stray gray hairs littered his thick beard, accumulating just above his ears so much that there was barely any color there anymore. Dmitri swallowed his apology in his realization, and hung his head down. Was it because he was so used to jumping into the unknown that he wished so badly to run out into the army without a second thought?

The man's arms embraced him, pulling him close to his soft chest. By reflex Dmitri reached up and gripped the arms, wishing he could pull them closer. It occurred to him then as well that he hated his current life. Thievery and lies, it still wasn't better than when he worked at the palace. He felt safe then, and Dmitri longed more than anything else now to be safe. Yes, Vlad was there to protect him, but his protection could only reach so far, especially when it came to his teenaged pig-headedness.

As that evening closed, Dmitri felt more and more at a constant unease. It was something intangible in the air, some sort of alarm. Maybe it was in the way the crows outside the window cawed, maybe it was in the late summer wind. But when Vlad fell asleep Dmitri was unable to put his mind at rest. Even when he carefully dug out the duchess's jewelry box, a trinket he hadn't looked at in ages, he did not feel better.

Then dogs in the distance barked. If Dmitri strained his hearing he could barely make out the angry roars of men among the dogs. A sort of panic for survival gripped him and he shook Vlad vigorously, waking him.

"What is it? It's still dark out, lad, what do you want?"

"I think we need to go," Dmitri breathed, "Now."

Vlad was silent as he listened, "Because of the dogs? They'll go away by morning, but you'd probably want to be cautious around them if you plan to go out tomorrow." He rolled over to go back to sleep.

"_No,_ Vlad, _please_, I don't like this. I think we should go."

Vlad sat up and peered at the boy, making no move to reach for his glasses, "In the middle of the night? Come now, they're just dogs. Go back to sleep, we can't move at a time like this. Wait until morning."

"Papa," Dmitri pleaded softly, urgently. Vlad stopped, for Dmitri had not called him 'papa' in years. Dmitri wrung Vlad's shirt, nervous, "_Please_."

Dmitri helped Vlad with carrying as many of the valuable items they possessed that they could carry, and under the blanket of night they stole away from their hidden apartment. It wasn't long after they managed to escape from the black market's plaza that they heard screams and gunshots behind them as the Red Army cleared out the remainder of the economically traitorous individuals that dared not side with them. Weaving somewhat blindly through the streets of Petrograd with little to no light guiding them save for the moon, they ran until they found a suitable resting place.

"This is no good," Vlad panted quietly, "Where do we go now? I'm sure both armies have patrols wandering about, we'll be caught before dawn!"

"The palace," Dmitri blurted before thinking, "We can go to the palace."

Vlad did not question the boy as he led him expertly through the streets on a memorized path back to the place where things began, back to the place where the imperial history was shot down, back to where the blue eyes sang and danced to a haunting tune long lost to memory.


	4. The Con

_Thank you once again you guys, really. I've had way too much fun writing this. Who knows, a counterpart dealing with Anya/Anastasia may be possible on the horizon too (but have a quick look at my profile before you get excited and start drooling over it) (I'm looking at you, Luna)_

_Today's introduction will be especially long because I have a lot of notes to point out, so bear with me. But seriously, once again, thank you all, you're too kind. One last thing before notes and then story time is this mini-story: My "proofreader", Luna, told me this today. She had printed out part of this chapter that I had typed for her to read and had taken it to school. Her history teacher confiscated it for "disrupting the class." Then, he read it, and absolutely loved it and demanded to know more. xD You guys this story made me laugh so much and made my day, I'm happy right now! Score one for fanfiction! That makes it like...still like...negative a million though, right? Oh bad me. Thanks again though!_

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**Notes, to be read before or after chapter four:**

_"Catherine" is left in the Western/English pronounciation not only for easiness purposes but familiarity purposes, as most Western/English people probably recognize "Catherine the Great" as opposed to "Yekaterina the Great"_

_If there are any similarities to Art Spiegelman's "Maus" within this, that is slightly intended. I do love the graphic novel "Maus" and instantly recommend it to anyone._

_Natalya, or "Nata", is a girl who has a personality that's very loosely based off of Czar Nicholas II's first lover, Mathilde Kschessinska. This is funny because I created Nata before I knew of Mathilde, and upon reading about her laughed nervously at some of their similarities._

_Homage is paid also to my favorite composer, who just happens to be Russian as well. (I liked him since I was 7 and before I loved Russia, I swear) Not only is his name stated towards the end of the chapter, but the ballet poster that is being covered up is something I imagine to be advertisement for one of his ballets. My favorite, to be precise: The Firebird. (Another composer that comes close to this one is Russian, and he is Shostakovich)_

_An apology in advance: Details on society in Soviet Russia are sketchy, as for one this takes place in the uneasy transition period between Lenin and Stalin, and as for two Soviet Russia never intrigued me as much as Imperial Russia. I am shame, but I did what I could with the research I scrapped together._

_Also a warning: I am inconsistent in my capitalizations hurrhurr._

_**Late edit, sorry. The song lyrics used for the title and summary are from the song "Mother Russia" by a 70's British group called "Renaissance". You'll know you have the right song if it's 9 minutes long. The song itself is about the Russian author Alexander Solzhenitzyn and his...well...just listen to it. (RIP, Alex)_

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**Chapter 4**

Dmitri was in a foul mood. Many things attributed to this; the bleary skies, the gloomy economy spiraling downwards, the city's history being erased with the swipe of one man's hand.

Leningrad. _Leningrad?_ What would the Englishman call it, St. Leninsberg? What a disgusting name spat out by a narcissistic government. What the hell kind of name is Leningrad, anyways? Oh, but of course, _Petrograd_ paid homage to the _Romanovs_, and _god forbid_ the people remember the late royal family. Everyone as a collective whole was now a proud Red, a honorable communist. Everyone was now equal, there were no royals and peasants anymore, everyone, _everyone_ was equal.

Meaning that you were just as poor and gray and hungry and angry and deprived and as important as your neighbor. You were unique and important, meaning you weren't.

But would he say these things out loud, even in the underground worlds? No, never. Dmitri could be foolish, but he wasn't _daft_.

He crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it to the side, not caring that it littered the streets. Vladimir Lenin himself, the self-proclaimed leader of Russia, had only died three days ago, and now they were renaming the capital after him. After what? It's not like Lenin had done much to improve the state of the country, aside from putting a stop to the civil war by winning it. Though he had promised the broken country of Russia "peace, bread, and land" Dmitri hadn't seen much of any of those three during the past decade. Sure there was peace now, but it was disturbing, watched over by the various Soviet soldiers on burly horses. There was bread too, but you had to know how to get more than your share of it (that is to say, you needed to know how to acquire the loaf instead of the crumbs.) And the land? The land was there, and so were the people. The end. Good luck. Don't do anything criminal.

Or, in Dmitri's case, just don't get _caught_ doing anything criminal. He and Vlad had created a sort of mastermind business built upon the art of forgery and theft. They were well known within the black market that they worked in, and had come to be often referred to if somebody needed travel papers, fake IDs, fake food stamps, work papers, you name it. Dmitri and Vlad were the best that anyone could see, mostly because they couldn't be tracked. Only a few people knew that the two con artists had stationed themselves at the old abandoned palace, and even then they had only known that through the constant rumors that circulated around the streets. Nothing was certain nowadays.

Despite their booming business with the people of the underworld they were not well off. Most of the food they consumed was stolen or acquired by other such illegal means, and usually was riddled with something that always made their stomachs cramp. The winters they faced were the worst—not only because food was scarce, but also because they could not keep themselves warm. The fires in the palaces did little to nothing thanks to the ultimate draftiness of the broken windows and absent doors. Boarding up the windows and doors helped, and though they tried their best to keep at least one room out of hundreds warm, they were always chilled no matter what. Fires were dangerous by themselves; they always had to be careful and make sure there was no smoke emitted from them lest their presence become known to the Soviets. The palace grounds were forbidden and therefore abandoned. Any signs of human life there would be immediately dealt with in the worst way possible.

They were never comfortable under the steel fists of the new government. Life was difficult beyond comprehension; a constant and harsh tight-rope walk with death at your shoulder at all times, be it in the form of famine, ice, disease, or bullets. Indeed, the night Dmitri and Vlad had escaped to the Winter Palace, they had remained inside its walls for nigh a year. Only a month or two after their escape the Red Army had bested all of its opponents, and a communist regime under the promising hand of Vladimir Lenin had risen.

But here the troubles still remained. From the shrouded windows of the Winter Palace Dmitri and Vlad warily watched the transformations of the outside world. They watched as wealth was spread thin over Russia's great land, they watched as Soviet soldiers paraded the streets, praising the motherland above all other lands. They watched. They waited.

Dmitri had had a greater interest in the changes of the outside world than Vlad. To Vlad, the demolition of his traditional Russia had turned his stomach inside out (that along with the usual withering case of influenza) and he only wished to look at the streets if he absolutely had to and only for as long as he needed. Vlad thought little of Dmitri's fascination with the outside streets, figuring it was quite normal for a boy who had been locked up for nearly all his life to show lots of curiosity with what he was not familiar with. Besides, Dmitri was not obsessed with their one connection to the outside. He always found time to eagerly sit across from Vlad for a sophisticated game of chess.

Vlad, of course, always won against the teenager who had never seen a chess board before, but that did not deter Dmitri from playing with him every time the man offered. Chess was the primary way he and Vlad passed the long lonely hours together when they were not creeping about the markets for a chance at food. The only other way they waited for the time to go by was when Vlad would sit down with one of the few books left from the destroyed library while Dmitri had taken the meticulous task of repairing and rebuilding the smashed model of the Moscow palace upon himself. It was grueling, detail-centric work, but it was time-consuming, and that's what Dmitri was looking for in the days that passed like weeks.

It wasn't until Dmitri started refusing to play chess during certain hours of the day that Vlad started to realize that he had more than just fascination with society through the windows of the palace. After a few days of his polite refusals, Vlad approached the window he was gazing out of, and looked to the streets.

Patiently Vlad waited; the longer he waited the greater his suspicions arose. He kept one on Dmitri's poised form, searching for a cue.

Dmitri shifted and straightened his back, pressing his face closer to the glass in wonder. Vlad gazed out then, searching the wet cobblestone streets. When he saw the reason for Dmitri's sudden change in demeanor, a smile pushed his cheeks upwards.

It was a girl. A fine young thing that had somehow kept her dignity intact through the civil war and the Soviet take over, clad in ragged velvet similar in abuse to Vlad's old fur coat. One could see her story from the distance—her family had adequate wealth, and had struggled greatly through but had proudly survived the civil war, very much unlike the former member of the failed Duma.

"She's quite pretty, isn't she?" Vlad mentioned, making Dmitri jump into the air as if he had not even registered that the large man was beside him, "And when shall I expect you to sneak out to speak to her?"

Dmitri squirmed and fidgeted, turning red, "Oh no, she wouldn't want to speak with _me_...," he muttered.

"And why not?" Vlad asked gruffly knowing full well why Dmitri was so hesitant, "The clothes you wear now present you as a strapping young lad, how is she to know about your status?"

Dmitri gazed back out the window to where the girl was purchasing small rolls of bread. Vlad placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder before leaning down to whisper in the boy's ear, "And besides, everyone is equal now, are they not?"

Vlad took almost full advantage of Dmitri's inexperience and innocence in dealing with affections towards the opposite sex. He didn't exactly coach him in the subject matter, but he did try to teach Dmitri how to waltz. It did not end well. Not only was it a means of teaching Dmitri culture, it also was supposed to increase his confidence. It did neither, and the very word "waltz" was never uttered to each other again, merely because of the complete disaster the lessons were. Still, this did nothing to stop Vlad from quite literally pushing him into meeting the girl. It was a feat which amused him greatly, an amusement that Dmitri did not share.

However it was enough to spark an acquaintance though, which quickly turned into a short friendship. Her name was Catherine, after the great czarina that had ruled ages before. Dmitri was simply in awe of her and all that she did, but though he tried to meet her and talk with her as often as he could she forever remained quiet and distant. Always she smiled sweetly at him, and always she had allowed him to walk with her, but she was unchanging, and from the beginning it always seemed that the friendship and adoration was one-sided.

They were only "together" for a very short time. One day as he walked with her through the streets Catherine stopped him at the usual street corner. She was two years his senior and just a smidgen taller, and when she looked him in the eyes for the first time his heart melted with both affection and fear.

"I'm leaving." she said in her quiet little voice, as plainly as the citizens of the streets.

"What?"

"My father found a way out. We're moving to Finland."

"Finland?" Dmitri's voice cracked. Catherine nodded.

"We're leaving tomorrow, before it gets worse here."

"But...," Dmitri stammered. He had found himself to be quite terrible with words around her, and today it seemed to be much more worse than normal.

"I can't take you with," she murmured, "Father doesn't even know about you...,"

"But...," Dmitri wanted to say something more but the words would not form. Catherine looked at him in pity and it was perhaps the worst feeling Dmitri had ever experienced in his downtrodden life.

"I'm glad I met you," she said, "You kept me lots of company."

And with that Catherine gently leaned down and pressed her lips to his. It was a short, kind little kiss that was more out of comfort than affection. Dmitri's chest tightened, and a great confusion took over his body as he stood there, stupefied as Catherine bade a final good-bye before she disappeared down the streets forever. On one hand his heart was swelling with such joy and giddiness from his first kiss he thought he could burst, on the other hand he was so horribly torn and heart-broken he wondered if it was possible for him to walk again.

However, it was Catherine's abrupt leave that brought Dmitri and Vlad back to the business of the black market. With Dmitri venturing out more than before, he began to re-familiarize himself with the streets. Reconnecting with the old market he and Vlad used to reside over, the two began to build up a fine little forgery business again. Dmitri helped more and more with the fake papers, and along with his renewed thievery had acquired a fine ink and printing mechanism. The addition of this hidden away in the palace made their forgeries of an extra quality, causing a spike in their popularity amongst the black market folk. Due to the constant rumors and lies, nobody quite knew their faces, and that was all the better. Once again they had themselves a somewhat suitable living off of these crimes, and by the time Dmitri was eighteen he and Vlad had three separate apartments. One of them was the old attic above the black market that they had repossessed from the now dead shopkeeper; another was a separate unassuming bland apartment built by the Soviets (used for business and domestic issues with the government should any arise). And, of course, they always had the Winter Palace should they need to fall back even further. More often than not they resided within the relative safety of the palace despite the impossible draftiness of it. The haunting history that the hollow building held was strong and everlasting, and as he and Vlad slowly worked in restoring anything Romanov to the palace the ghosts crept into their hearts, singing them lullabies as they struggled to sleep past the drafts of the broken windows. It was a place they could never leave without reason. They, in a deep, unaffectionate sense, loved the palace.

To travel between these three, Dmitri had retrieved a bicycle that someone had used as payment. For a while until it had become rusted from the use in the snow (sometimes he had been arrogant enough) Dmitri used it as his main vehicle of transportation. He had developed much skill with the bike, and with it had outrun suspicious Soviet soldiers, delivered larger packages of stolen goods, and had impressed children that ran about unchecked in the black market square. At one point Dmitri had been lucky enough to peddle his way towards a car, but he only drove it once. Having a car was like painting a target on your head for the Soviets. At least he now knew how to operate a car should the need for the skill ever arise, though. Random skills were the best to have in this world, and the more widespread they were the better. Knowing craftsmanships or trades could get you out of any sort of trouble if need be. Fortunately, no trouble had quite arisen yet.

It was through this way of life that he had met Nata.

Natalya, or Nata as she was called, had crashed into Dmitri's life so suddenly that before he knew it they were together, both partners in crime and in the bedroom. Nata was sharp and cunning, tricky in business and quite controlling all together. With long, wavy black hair and piercing brown eyes she looked every bit like what Dmitri had imagined his mother to look like with the exception of her short height and sly smirks; opposing the gentle smiles of his imagination. He was much taller than her, having grown like a weed until he was nearly as tall as Vlad. Such a height difference did not sway Nata's constant need for attention and control, and she often met with Dmitri and Vlad for meals, business, and other such things that she was insistent on being present for. Neither Vlad nor Dmitri minded much, and welcomed her subtle company. Dmitri himself had liked the fact that he had someone other than Vlad to confide in, even if she was manipulative at times. He didn't bend to her every will—far from it—but he found himself enjoying a woman who held such a tomboyish air of command about her.

He had been departing from Nata's apartment with traded illegal goods when he had finally heard the news of the city's name being switched out to something he believed to be far less meaningful. Dmitri had since learned that if Germany hadn't snuck the fugitive Lenin back into Russia that the revolution wouldn't have sparked such a violent response and war. This was all speculation of course, but Dmitri had taken it as a way to blame someone for his misfortune, and the more important the person he blamed the better, especially if that person was now dead and could never hurt him because of his blame. The only other question now was who was to lead the new Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?

As if to answer his question Dmitri glanced to the side to see a lone man unrolling a poster onto a craggy brick wall. The poster was big, and as it unrolled Dmitri noticed that it was intentionally covering up a smaller poster advertising for a ballet that had only recently been canceled by some sort of censorship. The worker nailed the corners into the old brick, unaware that Dmitri was standing behind him and staring in awe at the broad-shouldered militaristic man that stood powerfully as the one leader of the red rays of the background of the poster. Gathering his supplies, stuffing rolled papers into the crook of his arm, the worker moved on to toil and labor elsewhere, exposing the emboldened letters that represented the man, the leader's name.

STALIN.

Dmitri stared. He couldn't help but feel intimidated by such a daring and dramatic poster. Was this man depicted here the new ruler of Russia, of the U.S.S.R.? It couldn't be, or he would've known much sooner than this.

A gruff shuffling beside him did not draw his eyes from the poster until the one who had approached him spoke.

"He looks as though he might bring trouble. Might be replacing the royals. What do you think?"

Dmitri jumped, "Yuri!" he shook the man's hand, "You startled me, I didn't notice you."

The man, in his ripe middle ages, smiled and nodded. A veteran of the Great War, his deformed back, crippled left arm and slight insanity caused him to fall from his grace into hard times the moment the treaty of Brest-Litovsk removed Russia from the War. Perhaps the most fatal of his flaws, however, was his honesty. He was a faithful and constant customer to Dmitri and Vlad, who printed out documents for him to collect a Soviet soldier's salary as compensation for his loyalty and losses during the War. So far they had not been caught, and the concern about the veteran's disabilities becoming known to the Soviets had not yet been realized. The only thing that was frustrating about the crippled man was his inability to fully pay them back.

"So, have you got the payment for the latest 'escapade'?" Dmitri asked, pulling the man close to his side as they began to walk. He smiled as the man slipped a thick envelope into his coat pocket, heavy with paper bills.

"Not all of it," Yuri frowned, "But some. The price of wheat has gone up, and my neighbor—,"

"Yes, yes, Yuri. Okay." Dmitri interrupted, "I assume then that the document worked?"

"Oh yes, _yes_, it worked very well, sir! I must thank you, really, sometimes I feel as though I'm living as though the royals were still ruling!"

"Haha, well, unfortunately they aren't." Dmitri chuckled dryly. He liked Yuri and often looked the other way for his shortcomings, but sometimes his ramblings made him think uncomfortably of a time he'd long forgotten and put behind him.

"Oh _no_, sir. Well, they aren't ruling, but they are alive. I'm sure you've heard about the Grand Duchess, yes?"

Dmitri gave a tiny frown. He had heard of the quiet rumors and excitement that built around the unknown location of the lost princess and that she may or may not be alive. But these rumors had been around since the revolution, no one knew for sure. He kept his eyes to the sidewalk as he replied, "I've heard them, I believe."

"The Grand Duchess is alive!" Yuri said in a hushed whisper, careful not to be caught by the solitary patrolling soldier.

"_May_ be alive." Dmitri corrected. He was not willing to get his hopes up on a subject that had been long dead in both his mind and in the courtyards of the palace.

"Nay, sir!" Yuri said, something shining with wonder in his eyes, "The Dowager Empress, what riches she promises if someone finds her grand-daughter alive! And I feel...that she is, that's how I feel."

Dmitri stopped walking, "You are an optimist, Yuri," he said a little too seriously than he wanted to towards the man, "Really."

He patted the veteran on the shoulder before he traded good-byes with him, heading off to retire at the palace. He walked sullenly, mulling over Yuri's words. Many con artists not dissimilar to him, he supposed, were trying their hand at fooling the Dowager for her money, but to no avail. They must've all been noble efforts with sinister causes to do so, but nothing could stand up to the real thing. Really, no one could effectively raise the Grand Duchess from the dead. If someone successfully tried and conned the Empress into thinking that the falsehood of a girl they presented was the actual Duchess, Dmitri would burst several veins in anger, appalled at the audacity of the con artist who had the nerves to do such a thing. No one would be able to do that though without knowing the Duchess and her life, and most of them were all dead except...

Except...

Dmitri quickened his pace, eyes alight with a newfound mischievous fire, forgetting his previous hypothetical wrath. His feet might as well have flown him the rest of the way to the Winter Palace as plots and plans began to fold together in his mind. Why didn't he think of this before? They could do it. They were the only ones who could, he and Vlad. With the prize money they could live on forever in any place other than this.

They were going to reunite the Grand Duchess Anastasia with her grandmother, the Dowager Empress.

They were going to con the world.

–

Vlad had surprisingly taken the idea of the con wonderfully despite the fact that it would mean almost ruthlessly tricking the cousin of his lovely Sophie, the woman who now cared for the Dowager. Perhaps the horrid economy and living conditions had beaten him down to a moral low, a time in his life where anything was possible simply because his own was so impossible right now. There was also a deep confidence in Sophie for being able to forgive him should they ever make it that far. He was, like Yuri, an optimist.

Almost instantly they had begun intense research on the many failed cons of the past, pulling together a great folder of facts and history about the royal family revolving around the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Before long, combined with their previous knowledge of the family, they had gathered together a sufficient amount of books, files, pictures, ideas scribbled on paper, and scripts. Still they worked hard into the night, hammering out any mistakes that could be made, making sure that everything was going to work smoothly, making sure they had every last thing they needed. They were by no means ready overnight, and they would make sure to spend as much time on this as was possible so that nothing—_nothing_ could ever go wrong.

They even had an ace up their sleeve. The jewelry box that Dmitri had kept for all these years was still in their possession, and they knew very well that having that jewelry box almost guaranteed their success. Of course, they would still be careful and meticulously plot every step of their journey. Something like this was too important to leave to chance, even if the chance was the duchess's jewelry box itself.

He barely noticed, but Dmitri's attitude towards the jewelry box had dramatically changed over the eight years he had it in his possession. Slowly, as those eight years passed by, he looked at the box with an emotion that grew farther away from mystery, wonder and adoration. Sooner rather than later it transformed into longing, then regret, then anger, then it became merely an object in his eye, all magic behind it lost. He judged it by its monetary value, by the precious stones set into its gold skin. At one point he had considered breaking the box open to see once and for all what was inside. He didn't, however, as that would severely devalue it. Now the monetary value was disguised as a part of the con against the Dowager Empress. It meant nothing to him now beyond that. Everything—all of his life's work, every thought that ran through his mind—was now for the con.

Nata knew about the con too. True, she wasn't told about their brilliance in planning, nor was she told any of the reasons why they were so confident that they would succeed (neither Vlad nor Dmitri had relayed to her any information of their past connections to the royal family or about the jewelry box) but she knew everything else. At first she had desperately wanted to be the one to play as Anastasia, but the constant negative feedback both men gave her forced her to give up on the idea. Always, her eyes weren't blue, her nose was too pointed, her eyes too narrow and her smile too sly. Still, she insisted and persisted to be a great part of their plans though she made little to no effort to learn much of anything.

Dmitri was starting to find her to be a burden.

For nearly a year now they had been together, trading illegal goods and paying as much attention to each other as possible. For a while now Dmitri had been feeling a heavy strain on the relationship as time progressed. It seemed that she had become much more demanding, calling upon him as often as possible. He began to refuse her constantly, reaching the point where he began to dread seeing her. Whatever wild spark that had made ends meet before had evaporated, and how it did! Vlad, who was wisely watching everything from afar had speculated that despite everything they knew about each other physically, they knew nothing of each other otherwise, and now that who they were was surfacing to one another, things were becoming more frozen and violent than the blizzards of the last winter. It did not help that she insisted to be in every part of Dmitri's life, regardless of the annoyance it caused both men.

"I don't know anymore, Vlad," Dmitri voiced his concerns one balmy summer morning, the streets wet from a recent rain and the skies cloudy, "I don't see anything in her. I don't think I _ever_ did,"

"Relationships take time," Vlad said, stepping over a puddle. Dmitri opened his voice to protest that there had been much time for their relationship before Vlad interrupted him, "_And_ trial and error." The big man had shaved his thick beard, trimming it down to a tamed cut that curved around the bottom of his cheeks and had left a tuft of hair on his chin. Dmitri walked briskly beside him as they traveled to the black market square.

"Yes, but did _you_ experience anything like this?"

Vlad chuckled as he thought back to old memories, "Oh, yes. Probably even worse than yours."

"I find that hard to believe," Dmitri complained, twisting his mouth, "Vlad...Should I even stay with her?"

"Do you _really_ want my advice?" Vlad cautioned.

"Yes." Dmitri replied after only a second of consideration.

"No."

The pair walked in silence for a while. Dmitri shifted the package under his arm so it fitted better and waited until they had passed a couple of soldiers before picking up the conversation again.

"I _know _you said no, but...I don't want to lose a partner out in the field. And I don't want _you _to replace her, being the one to have to dodge soldiers if need be. I mean...you're not exactly fit for the job."

Vlad patted his stomach accordingly, no offense taken whatsoever, "Ah yes, but you don't have to break the partnership with her after the relationship,"

"Vlad," Dmitri said, almost chastising, "You _know_ how Nata is."

"Of course, you're right," Vlad murmured, deep in thought. She was quite an asset to their business, being a second fieldman. They could manage without her, of course, but things were much easier and relaxed with her help around.

No conclusion on the partnership was reached as they continued their walk. They spent the rest of their time in the streets enjoying the cool, comfortable temperature and listening to the sounds of the far-off pier starting up for a day of fishing. The meows of stray cats and caws from many crows filled the air, accompanied by cooing pigeons and the occasional yappy dog. Along the roads various bakeries and shops were opening their doors to the early public, warm lights inviting them inside.

"Vlad...," Dmitri asked as they neared the black market, "Be honest. Did you ever, _ever_ see anything with Nata and me?"

Vlad was quiet as he stood in front of the door leading into the market.

"No."

Dmitri did not take his answer as a sharp blow to his pride, but he thought heavily on it all day as he helped sort papers and orders in the cramped apartment. The old room they used to live in was gutted out of everything (including the faucet) and upon their return to it they had begun to stuff it chock-full of every last thing they could find, including the repaired Moscow palace and an ornate cabinet to store the duchess's jewelry box. Drapes of silk hung from the ceiling, piles upon piles of trinkets, books, toys, decorations, nesting dolls, files, papers, and portraits. All of it could be used to peddle their way out of trouble, or pay off someone for a favor, or just generally impress a particularly skeptic customer. It was all stuffed here in this tiny little attic apartment.

"You'll be alright in here, then?" Dmitri confirmed, standing in the doorway, coat in hand. Vlad nodded as his feather pen scribbled across a paper.

"Are you going to stay with Nata afterwards?"

"Erm...I don't know." Dmitri said as he tried to avoid the upcoming confrontation.

"The sooner the better, lad. Come now, you're one year behind twenty, you can handle this." Vlad called to Dmitri as he adorned his hat and coat to go outside.

"Ha, ha, ha," Dmitri called up the staircase and ladder as he descended, "I'll see you later. Don't know where! If I'm not back by early evening you know what to do!"

Vlad rolled his eyes and sighed as he dipped the pen in the bottle of ink before returning to his work. What trouble that boy could get into Vlad could only dream of.

Dmitri stepped back out onto the streets under Soviet control, taking in a deep breath of the midday air. He soon trotted off into the city, following a practiced route to reach the meeting place between him and Nata. She was supposed to have a sack of food for him, a delivery of sugar to a shopkeeper that held a stall in the black market square. Along the way there he practiced and scratched all the things he could say to her to tell her that it was over between them but he still wanted to keep the partnership. Nothing he said sounded right, and nothing he said worked. In a small fit of despair, he finally gave up and would either drop the subject entirely for that day, or improvise everything. Whichever his stomach felt like doing at that precise moment.

He didn't try to avoid patrolling soldiers until he was a block away from their meeting place. If a soldier appeared he would casually duck into a shop and pretend to be interested until the the soldier disappeared from the street. Today there were no soldiers about, on which Dmitri thought nothing of until he turned the corner.

There was Nata with the bag of sugar, nonchalantly waiting for him. He was just about to approach her directly when a soldier marched up to her. Then another. Then two more. Dmitri froze. He saw a look of fear flash across Nata's face as she was cornered into a small alley between two buildings, and his chest tightened. The soldier's smirked devilishly, knowing they had caught an illegal trader from the start. Dmitri quickly ducked behind the corner building before he could be seen, peeking over the edge. The soldiers herded Nata farther into the alleyway. When the corners of their tunics disappeared behind the brick, Dmitri cautiously crept out from behind the building, edging closer to the alleyway to eavesdrop.

"Now now, my pretty little cat. You simply just don't have that much sugar without a _purpose_, you understand."

"O-Of course, I was going to bring it to the baker's on Yule Street before you stopped me," Nata stuttered. The soldiers chuckled at her seeming insolence, and another spoke.

"Funny you say that, because I personally closed down that bakery just three days ago, was it. Yes, they were using illegally obtained ingredients you see. But _you_ wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Dmitri stiffened. She was losing her grip fast.

"Well...," Nata continued, changing the tone in her voice to something lower, more seductive, "No, I wouldn't know about that. But I do know about...other things."

Dmitri closed his hand into a fist. If she couldn't get herself out of this by these means, they were several hundred steps closer to being done for. As long as she didn't crack under the pressure for her own safety, they'd be fine though. As long as she was loyal, nothing bad would happen to he and Vlad, and, at a larger stake, the entire market.

She cooed and croned, dropping the bag to better unbutton the tunic of one of the soldiers. Dmitri tested his bravery and edged closer so he could see the reactions of the soldiers to see if it was working or not.

What he saw made his heart crash into his stomach and rebound into his throat. Oh, they were interested in her, and definitely in that way, but they weren't falling for her little ploys. The soldier she was currently trying to unbutton grasped her tightly by her wrists and she gasped as he lifted her off of the street ever so slightly, her dainty shoes scraping over the cobblestones in vain to reach the ground.

"Hey now, pretty kitty," The soldier purred lowly through a very nasty smirk, "What's that saying they have? _Curiosity killed the cat?_"

Nata stuttered again, something that did not happen often, "B-but"

The soldiers began to laugh and Dmitri considered retreating so as not to be caught himself until Nata raised her voice over the soldiers' din.

"But satisfaction brought it back!" she cried. The soldiers stopped. Dmitri already saw where this was going from acres away, and his eyes widened as all sorts of hysteria settled in on his limbs.

"What was that now, kitty cat?"

"I can show you where I was going to take the sugar," she panted, "It's a big market full of illegal trade. I can get in, and show you."

The soldiers paused and looked at one another, "Well, my pet, where is this market located?"

As Nata gave the address Dmitri slunk backwards until he was out of hearing distance before he bolted. He had heard the seriousness in Nata's voice. And though he could not _believe_ she would crumble so easily and betray all of them like this he was not taking any chances. Racing through the streets of Leningrad, he made a beeline for the black markets as opposed to the winding trails he took to avoid any pursuers from following him. He knew for sure that Nata did not see him in the background, and he knew that she was not attempting to give him fair warning. She was merely doing this to save her own ass at the cost of the lives of not only he and Vlad but many other desperate, struggling people. People he knew and did business with. People who were united under a mutual trust of the underground. A trust that she was breaking at this moment.

Adrenaline urged his legs to move at near super human speeds until he hit the door to the market, pounding on it frantically. The gatekeeper on the other side rasped for a password and Dmitri breathlessly gave it to him, nearly scrambling it up. As the gatekeeper pried the door open Dmitri burst in, pushing the man backwards onto his rear end. Slamming the door shut behind him, Dmitri did not wait and listen to the gatekeeper's growlings before he began shouting at him.

"Don't let Nata in! For God's sake don't let _anyone _in! Hide, go and hide, there are soldiers on the way!" The gatekeeper's eyes widened, and Dmitri sped off into the market.

"_Hide, _go and hide, _all of you!_ There are soldiers coming! They'll be here, _hide_, oh damn you!" he screamed as he passed through the markets. Fear rose into the air like a levy that broke under the constant pressure of an ocean, and soon people everywhere were frantic. Stalls disappeared within a matter of minutes, doors to the sewers opened and closed, people scurried about and disappeared into the cracks of the protected market, slinking away like rats. All around him the market died and disappeared into submission, people pulling down levers that dropped boards over their alcove of the market. Dmitri raced through the people, shouting at the top of his lungs. The soldiers could be here any second, especially if they raised the alarm of the opportunity to the units on horse and automobile. Children cried as they descended into the smelly sewers, people throwing the goods of their shops down the drains with them to hide all evidence.

Reaching the back of the market Dmitri's heart raced. Scrambling up the ladder that led to the staircase up to the attic, he heard the last few men scatter dust about the floors of the buildings, giving an ancient unused appearance to the concrete. Pulling the ladder up with him, Dmitri tried to keep his hands from trembling horribly as he closed the trap door. Grabbing a large, heavy wooden post he pulled it on top of the trap door, hooking it with the beams that criss-crossed the floor of the roof. One could barely distinguish that it was a false beam unless it was carefully observed. The idea behind such a device was to fool any persons knocking upon the ceiling to notice any hollowness where the door was. They had never had to use it before, and, God-willing, it would work and possibly save their life today.

Vlad was atop the staircase as Dmitri took the steps three at a time.

"My god, lad, what is it? What happened?"

"Nata," Dmitri gasped, struggling to keep his voice quieter than it had been, "Nata was caught. She's bringing the soldiers here."

Vlad's eyes widened behind his tinted glasses.

"Dmitri...,"

He shut the door behind him as he and Vlad retreated to the far back of the room, huddling in a corner they hastily cleared out. It was where their beds used to be, and it was where Dmitri had insisted that they leave this place before it was rooted out by soldiers with their hounds. Shuddering against the wooden corners, the two men clutched at each other's arms as their life hung in the balance, determined only by their ability to conceal themselves. At one point someone had cried a soft "Oh, god." but no one stopped to consider which of them had uttered it.

Why couldn't the stupid girl have the ability to think for others and not just for herself? Wouldn't it be better that she would just be caught and have her life sacrificed for the good of what must have been a hundred others?

After an agonizing silence, the Soviets arrived at the market along with Nata. She had tried to give the password at first, but when nobody answered her the door was broken down by the soldiers, a sound that was a bomb shell upon the entire market community. Everyone heard it. There was no avoiding the sound of the possibility of your life collapsing into the pits of hell.

What the soldiers found was an abandoned market place, the site of an old university's commons. A few homeless people staggered about here and there, moaning and muttering madly. They shrank away at the soldier's disgusted glares. There were quite a few of them, but too little to be a bustling market place and too insane to uphold any sense of self, much less business. Holding their rifles and using them to pick through any pieces of evidence they could find that life could have, at one point, been there, the group of four soldiers had expanded into a score, scouring the place from top to bottom.

Nata called out into the marketplace. She _knew_ everyone was there. There was no possible way every single one of them would pack up and go home, especially in the middle of the day. The one thing she didn't know was everyone's escape plans and routes. To be sure, nobody knew anybody else's escape plans except for their own, and Nata never resided within the market long enough to learn of Dmitri's escape plan. The longer the place remained dead silent in the balmy wind, the more she became desperate and nervous.

"_Hey_!" She called out, frustrated, "I _know _you're here! Here, this is where a food stall is supposed to be! Look, _look_!" The soldier she had gestured to bent down to inspect the dust, but he sniffed dismissively. Nata stamped her foot on the ground, sending up clouds of the dirt into the soldier's face. It was inadvertently, of course, but the soldier snarled and snapped at her, warning her to keep her decency.

Thoroughly angered, Nata stormed ahead of the soldiers, leading them directly to where she knew the ladder and trap door was that lead up to the attic apartment. She knew at least that Vlad was there along with a bunch of riches, and told the soldiers so, pointing at the faint outline of a square in the ceiling.

The soldiers began pounding on the door with the butts of their rifles, one of them shouting demands to the occupants to emerge from their hiding place. Each consecutive slam of the rifles on the wooden door made Dmitri and Vlad flinch horribly, their eyes closed tightly, praying frantically. They swore they could feel the vibrations of each hit through the rickety floorboards. No one dared moved for fear of giving away their position. The attacks on the trap door were relentless, and Dmitri found himself hysterically whispering "Oh god, oh god, oh god," with each pound as he lapsed back to a momentary fit of trauma. Vlad grasped Dmitri's arm tighter in a lost attempt to comfort both his companion and himself.

Then, all of the sudden, the pounding stopped. The two men held their breaths, straining their ears to hear whatever they could.

"Why did you stop? He's up there, I tell you! He sits up there and writes fake papers, all day, surrounded by Romanov treasures!" Nata screamed as the soldiers retreated with a scoff. One of them, an older and thinner one, turned to her and plainly, bluntly cuffed her ear.

"Hush your mouth, wench. There's no point in that trap door, someone must have built over it ages ago. If it was hollow it would've given way by now."

Nata's mouth dropped open. As her gaze traveled to the faces of all the skeptic, disbelieving soldiers, her heart began to race with panic.

"Yeah, they cleared this place out a few years ago. My captain was part of the team, he said nothing was left. I doubt they could've started up again, I mean look, there are just a few rats here dressed in rags," a soldier noted as he kicked one of the homeless men away. Many of the other soldiers nodded and agreed with him as they began to file out, knowing the few homeless people were not worth the bloodshed. Nata began to scream at their incompetence, throwing a temper tantrum that was shortened only by two soldiers taking her by her upper arms, smiling lecherously.

"Well now, you're not off the hook, kitten, but we'll gladly take that offer you gave us anyways," Nata screamed, first in anger then in actual, real fear as she was carried out of the marketplace. As a final word as she left the place she cursed Dmitri's name, not even knowing for sure that it was him that had saved the market. Her screams were carried off and muffled by the back of an automobile as it drove away to the Soviet headquarters.

Neither Dmitri nor Vlad opened their eyes for the longest time, sitting there frozen still and huddled in fear. It wasn't until the tentative familiar noises of the market below them started to revive, slowly creeping out from their solaces back into the clouded sunlight. The men who acted as homeless wretches discarded their rags and began repairing the broken door, cleaning up the mess the soldiers had done and coaxing people to come back out again once two hours had passed.

Dmitri opened his eyes. Both he and Vlad uneasily stood up, knees shaking. As they wandered about their attic apartment, dazed from their close brush with death, they touched the objects in the room with renewed senses, feeling more than they could before.

"Oh," Dmitri said with a face slightly twisted in discomfort. Vlad looked over to him as he elaborated with a small laugh of relief.

"I'm hungry."

–

It was a week before they saw Nata again. To be perfectly honest they were not expecting to ever see her face again; whether it was because of the Soviets or because of her hurt pride and trust. That doesn't mean that they weren't prepared when she showed up one evening, unusually dirty and rumpled from whatever punishment she had received from the headquarters.

He and Vlad were mingling about their third government built apartment, tidying it up and using it simply to be used. An attempt to avoid suspicion, as always. She found them here, and when she stormed her way in they were simply sitting about, Dmitri with his nose in a newspaper and Vlad brewing himself some tea. When the door opened only Dmitri looked up, the smallest amount of surprise on his face.

"Oh," he said rather lightly, "There you are. Where were you? We haven't seen you for just over a week now,"

"Where have I been?" she inhaled incredulously, "Where have I _been_? Don't you know? Didn't you _wonder_ when you didn't find me there with the sugar?"

Dmitri looked up and off into the distance as if truly contemplating in wonder. Vlad poured himself a cup of tea and slowly sat himself down without offering her any—something very peculiar in its abnormality of his character. She only took small notice in the change as she always refused the tea as it was, she only liked tea when fine vodka was added to it, and what little vodka they had was to be saved for very special occasions.

"Well, I don't know, I guess I just figured you'd have it covered if you were in trouble, why?"

"What do you mean, '_why'_? When I finally found my way to the market, it was completely empty!"

Dmitri blinked, "Huh?"

"_Empty!_" Nata yelled, leaning down to spell it in his face "Emp-ty! Empty! As if they were expecting an attack from the soldiers!"

He shrugged innocently, "I wouldn't know anything about that, I stopped off at the real market to meet a client, and then to the bakery."

Nata straightened back up with a disgusted sneer, and her sharp eyes streaked over to where Vlad was quietly sipping his tea, glaring viciously.

"You! Vlad! You were there, weren't you? You're _always_ there, you hardly ever _leave_ there, right?"

Dmitri gritted his teeth and pushed his anger away, more than willing to slap her for her blatant disrespect towards Vlad. Keeping his innocent tone, he replied for him, making Nata spin on her heel to turn her murderous eyes to him.

"Vlad couldn't walk about a week ago. Something went wrong with his knee, he couldn't even stand."

"_Horse shit!_" Nata swore, almost causing Vlad to choke on his tea from her sudden and loud display of profanity, "He was standing up not two minutes ago!"

"Goodness, child," Vlad coughed, "I only just began to walk again today, and I was only just standing yesterday." Dmitri gave him a sympathetic look, leaving Nata speechless.

"B-But...the market was _empty_, and nobody knew...," She trailed off, confused and starting to feel embarrassed. Dmitri messily folded the newspaper and stood up.

"Well, I'm telling you that we know nothing of what happened that day," He said, looking gravely into her eyes. There was ever so slightly a hint of blazing rage in them, and as Nata looked up at him she caught onto it.

"You're lying," she said huffily. Dmitri laughed through his nose.

"Why would I be lying about something I know nothing about? I'm much better at that than you are, seeing as how you're doing _nothing_ for this Anastasia con,"

Nata began to show her anger again, looking him in the eye as she seethed, "I don't _need _to know anything if I have you along,"

"I'm not so sure you have me along anymore," Dmitri muttered darkly, towering over her.

"What," Nata said, pursing her lips and speaking to him as if he were a child, "Because of a little boo-boo incident on the field a week ago? Why so _judgmental_, Dmitri?"

"Because _whoever_ it was betrayed over a hundred people that day is a nasty little whore, and I'll be damned if I keep the company of someone like _that."_

Nata's face blushed to red, teeth gritted in an attempt to hold back her frightened embarrassment, "You weren't there, you were at the bakery!"

"Oh, that's right," Dmitri corrected himself lowly, "I _was_. The one down on Yule Street, I think. Because the one on Stravinsky was just two blocks too far away."

Nata's face contorted in horror and humiliation. Sweeping her coat about her, she frantically glanced back and forth from one man to the other, finding no sympathy and yet no outward hatred anywhere. They just stared, waiting for the weight of her deeds to settle down in her stomach, waiting for her to break underneath the pressure. Huffing heavily as though she was going to retort, she finally gave up, face bursting with the color of the Soviet rule. She raised a hand as if to slap Dmitri, but she didn't get very far before she wiped her sweaty palm on the side of her jacket before stuffing it in her pocket. Giving a decisive 'hmph' she stomped out the door, trying to act as though she had won. Watching after her with a deserving 'serves her right' look, Dmitri flopped back down onto the chair he was sitting on, snapping the newspaper back open.

"Vixen bitch," he concluded as he continued to read. Vlad gave a noncommittal hum, and even though it sounded neutral it was clear that he agreed with Dmitri's closing words, as wholly as one possibly could.

–

"Ah, so you're closing business here, then?" Yuri asked as he stood up to leave. Dmitri nodded.

"Unfortunately yes, but you know where to find me on the streets. It's just that one of our...partners ran out on us, and we don't want any trouble with them and the Soviets," he explained, standing up himself to help the veteran out of the bland extra apartment. He and Vlad, after a careful consideration that probably only took five minutes, had decided to close the apartment they currently held in the Soviet buildings, to sever any remaining possible ties with Nata. She could no longer enter the black market due to a change in both passwords and patterns, and since she knew nothing about their being stationed mainly at the Winter Palace, closing the lease on this apartment would be the final nail in the coffin of their relations with her. It was much better to be safe than sorry, and both men had learned that the very hard way how terrifying it was to be sorry.

Yuri thanked him as he held the door open, "You are a good man, Dmitri," he smiled, "Almost too good. There aren't enough men like you nowadays...,"

Dmitri stopped himself from choking in surprise, and gave a crooked smile in return, "You're too kind, Yuri. Always."

Yuri, standing just outside of the door, tipped his hat to the young man gratefully. Dmitri kept his crooked grin, hoping it didn't look too out of place.

"Say hello to Vlad for me, as always. I'll be watching for you then," Dmitri nodded, and watched the veteran walk down the hallway, seemingly undeterred by his small limp. Sighing, he retreated back into the almost-empty apartment, shutting the door quietly.

A good man? Hardly. Here he was spending his days rivaling the government at every turn in the most subtle of backstabbing deeds, and here he was preparing all of his life's work to thwart the Dowager Empress out of her money by faking the very person he had had a childhood crush on. Dmitri hardly called those the acts of a good man, much less the acts of a man that society needed more of. And what more would Yuri think if he knew that it was he that had successfully led Dmitri to, by means of a domino effect, convince himself that he _could_, _would, _and_ should _try his hand at what was to be the grandest con in the recorded history of man? Dmitri wouldn't be able to face the kind-hearted veteran ever again.

Pushing the gloomy thoughts from his mind, Dmitri cleared the rest of the supplies from the room into his shoulder bag, stuffing papers and ink bottles into it. Yuri had just left from the last meeting that was to be held in the apartment with a fresh set of faked documents, and as Dmitri left the room for the last time he wondered how and where they were going to set up another business place that Yuri had easy access to. He was their one faithful, good, honest customer that never failed them despite his scatterbrain and his early senility. Dmitri would hate to lose him both as a client and as a supporting figure and friend in his life.

Dropping the key off at the landlord's mailbox, Dmitri stepped out into the streets, the air slowly growing brisk and orange with the coming dusk. Despite everything that had happened so quickly within the past week and a half, he felt rather happy for the first time in a while. Close to freedom, even. Was this all because of his complete division with Nata? If he had known he would've felt this good he would've broken up with her ages ago!

Just as the light began to dim over the horizon Dmitri turned a corner that wasn't too far away from the apartment. It took him perhaps a few seconds to comprehend what he saw, but when he saw what it was his stomach turned. When he recognized _who_ it was lying crumpled on the street, his stomach replaced his heart. Breaking into a quick sprint, he skidded to a stop on his knees, tentatively hesitating to place a hand on the man's crippled left arm.

"Yuri...!" Dmitri gasped as he gently turned him over onto his back. The veteran coughed, his teeth stained a horrible shade of red and orange. Shaking, Dmitri's eyes traveled down until he saw the bloody holes in Yuri's chest, the red from the wounds spilling out onto the pavement. Amazingly the tough old man coughed and opened his eyes, the glossy irises roving about until they found Dmitri hovering above them.

"Yuri!" Dmitri called again, aghast, "What happened?"

He knew very well that he shouldn't have urged the dying man into talking, but Dmitri could not stop himself. Giving a smile that would've been warm if it weren't for the demonizing blood against his pale lips and the stench of copper, the man coughed again as he responded.

"Guh caught...th'knew...t'was fake...An' they didnt wan' me tuh wurk...too weak, theyssed...," He drowned himself out with a fit of convulsions that wracked his body, and Dmitri's face contorted in pain as he watched him suffer on the cold concrete. Even still Yuri's smile widened as he continued.

"S'okay thuh...didnt tell 'em 'bout you guys...you guys'm good guys," He hacked and something alien within the blood spurted out of his mouth and onto the sidewalk. Dmitri felt his stomach shrink in capacity as bile began to lace up the back of his throat, "Good guys...," Yuri repeated. Dmitri shushed him, brushing his hair back gently, watching as what little life his glossy eyes still held faded away. All too soon Dmitri felt the veteran's broken ribcage fail beneath his trembling blood-stained fingers, and Yuri's last breath gave way, coming to a shuddering stop. Suddenly everything about the hardy old veteran collapsed, and he felt weak and fragile to the touch. With a small, horrified gasp Dmitri lifted his hand away from the old man's chest, fearful that he would break it even more. He could not break his gaze with the dead man's glazed eyes, but the more he stared at them the more he came to terms with what had happened, and the terrified gape he wore slowly shifted to a sad, accepting frown.

Gently closing the veteran's eyes, he kissed the side of his fingers before he placed those fingers across Yuri's forehead. Feeling a slight amount of guilt, he opened Yuri's coat, searching for the hidden pockets sewn into the sides. Digging his hand into one, he took out the two medals the veteran had received for his services. Gilded and only slightly marred by the blood, Dmitri pocketed them for safe keeping. Any other body looter would have taken them for the monetary wealth it would give them, but no body looter except for him would honor them with the life they once belonged to. Paying his last respects to their faithful client, Dmitri stood up, stepped uneasily around the body, and closed his jacket to hide the blood that had stained his vest and shirt.

What a tragic pity. The one man who was forever honest in this city died from the dishonest act of another, and through his death utter the only false words in his life to save the lives of those that did the dishonest acts that got him killed in the first place.

God, Dmitri hated this country.

–

Rising to meet the cold wintry sun, Dmitri felt giddy and light-hearted. Today was the day. Two years had passed since the initial idea had sprouted and the plans had been worked over, and now everything was perfect. Nothing could every possibly go wrong with the lives of Dmitri and Vlad now. All they needed was the perfect girl for the perfect forgery. And it all started with the air he breathed today, perhaps the last air he would breathe from the accursed city of Leningrad.

He dressed quickly and flew out of the Winter Palace, coat, hat, and shoulder bag in hand. Smiling into the Russian sun, he knew that today would be the day of a new life for him. No more life of lies and betrayal. It all started and ended here, with their last hurrah of criminal intent.

The life of Anastasia will rise again.


End file.
